If you are a practitioner of the gentle and subtle art of ‘reading between the lines’ you may be interested to know – that perhaps you were right – this blog has become a collision. A mish mash of permaculture practices and personal, daily insights and reflections. At least for now. No apologies, please carry on . . . you may learn from this.
Writing is therapy for me. Permaculture is not just gardening remember. And how wonderfully therapeutic it has been to capture just a small part of what our lives are like. It is the tip of the ice-berg. I am after all, a rather private person. Hence the reluctance to post pictures of myself and family. It may come at some point.
Now, the rain came today. A reprieve from hand watering the garden for a while. We were all up early, not that unusual, but Mr DIG (our Distinguished International Guest) was departing for home after his stay with us. Leaving the mild mid-twenties (68-70 F) for the possibility of – 10 (14 F). The lulling, bird song laden breezes of November mornings for darkened Northern Hemisphere mornings and scraping ice off the car windscreen. The silky feel of beach sand between the toes for iced concrete paths and central heating.
I suspect for him it was a departure from chaos. Actually, I KNOW it would have been a departure from chaos. But if he felt any of the moments of peace and serenity that I got a glimpse of during our ventures out, then I suspect he had a good stay. We made the best of our current circumstances. But it was still chaos.
Mr DIG’s visit for me was also a re-awakening to the wonders of the natural world that surround us here in the Great Southern and South West corner of the state and Nation. I was filled with moments of quiet, deep reaching gratitude for the beauty around us. These moments have been few and far between the last couple of years as life has pulled me away with distractions and lack of sleep. Piling more complex distractions on top of distractions. Burying creativity and hobbies and ‘consciousness’ underneath the daily pulse of life. Further down. Away. To avoid the disappointment that comes with having to make sacrifices. Alas, it is not sustainable.
And so as one busy, frantic week begins to merge seamlessly with another we also find ourselves entering December and staring down the barrel of the countdown til Christmas and all the obligations and events that it can bring.
But that is almost an aside to the quickly approaching day that we find ourselves suddenly granted with the opportunity to move into The New Tillellan. And then the fun really begins.
Still, we must enjoy the journey, for after nearly fifteen months, that time will be upon us in a heart beat. And somewhere there, out there, is the hope that life will find a comfortable pace for a while. That the complex distractions will fall away in exchange for simple, up-lifting distractions and more of life’s treasured moments will naturally pass by with a brilliance and lucidness, instead of fighting through fatigue for recognition.
It is time for some sleep. And then the bird song . . .