The June Edition
Midsummer stories, further explorations of grief and stealth calls from the tawnies.
The peak of high summer is my favourite time of year. There is something about the intensity of the light and sharp heat hitting my skin that makes me feel more alive than I do all year.
Sure, wood fires, woolly socks and the cosiness of the cold are nice enough, but I quickly tire of winter particularly as in our climates they are increasingly grey, damp and dreary. And long. So so long.
Grey winters suck out my vital force - I feel all parts of myself wane as it becomes increasingly difficult to muster up any sense of creativity. My immunity drops, my nervous system tenses. I feel like a shell of myself longing for the light and heat that I know I am in true resonance with. I have felt the awareness of how the seasons affect me since forever but of course now as life for us here on our smallholding is well and truly intertwined with the seasons, I fully understand how Nature and me are connected.
High summer, along with abundance and ripeness gifts us colour and fragrance. We loosen our protective armour, literally shedding clothes and opening ourselves up to allow for better movement, circulation and sensory connection to the people and world around us. Things are brought into sharp contrast. Shadows are long and lingering yet smouldered by the pureness and optimism of the light.
Here at home, the children and I have been living half dressed and barefoot, strolling around the cottage garden picking ripe strawberries and podding peas fresh from their shells. Very little produce is actually making it to the kitchen this year - our first really growing and getting to know what is fruitful and suiting these soils. There have been casualties and many losses as the damp brought with it colonies of slugs and ants nests beneath the hugelkultur raised beds. All our brassicas, squashes, broad beans, aubergines and most of the early tomatoes were ravaged by hungry molluscs and other little critters. The only surviving plants in the raised beds are the beetroot, onions, garlic, Jerusalem artichokes and one bed full of strawberries. I deliberately planted out barrels and pots of nasturtiums and calendula around the raised beds but these did not seem to make much difference to the mini-beast attack. Next year I plan to plant onions in and around all the beds as better companion planting as these are the only plants left untouched since we began planting.
At night we are accompanied by the call of tawny owls who take up residence in the poplar tree nearest the cottage. The shrill squawk of the females, responding to the lower hoo-hooo sound of the males, as the only sound at night in this quiet place traveling far and clear in the stillness. One night this week it sounded like one of them was right outside our wide open bedroom window.
It used to be thought that tawny owls were portents of evil and death. Many fairytales and folklore foreshadow owls to a creepy end, though I am finding their eerie squeaks and calls to be quite comforting and familiar. I have come face to face with their large staring eyes in the trees at night and something about those owls’ confronting stares seems to see right through me. I see you - they seem to say, I see the truth of you. I wonder if this is why owls make so many people feel uncomfortable?
I haven’t spoken about my grief for a few weeks. That of course doesn't mean it is not still a part of me. In fact, even my use of the word ‘still’ I know is pretty pointless. It seems to denote a timescale, one from which I will never be free from. Isn’t it interesting when paying attention to what is said about grief - ‘She still cries on his birthday every year’. ‘He still drinks out of her coffee cup’, ‘She still can’t listen to this song without feeling sad’. Grief has no time scale. It is quite clear for me that grief is an energetic awareness that I will carry forevermore, and I know that energy will go through cycles and patterns of intensity mirrored by what is happening in life for me at various times. I know too that grief will not ever be taken away from me. In fact the opposite will happen as I lose more people over time. I want to add at this point that I am not intentionally trying to bring a sinister tone to these feelings. Grief is a very natural, important energetic state that I feel has a higher purpose and is intended to be explored. I really don’t believe Nature intends for every one of us on this planet to drop our vibration as the darkness of depression indeed does, and yet grief is an energy that we will all experience at some point in our lives. For me it feels more interesting and useful to explore how grief can inform me in other ways - how it might influence my choices and decision-making, how to safeguard my own boundaries and protect my wellbeing. One thing I have noticed is when I am asked how I am, I’m not sure how to respond. However if I am asked how is my grief today - it feels soooo much better. I can orient myself more efficiently. I can go straight into that point of enquiry. I am given permission to explore what is taking up the most space in my life at the moment. It makes me think of that old default response ‘I just don’t know what to say” when talking to someone who is grieving. I would offer to perhaps ask something specific such as ‘is there anything you feel particularly sad about today?’ ‘tell me something about your person’, ‘what is your favourite memory of them’.
We live in a strange society where we feel we need to take people away and distract them from their grief. But I feel this is surely dangerous? We know how unexpressed emotions can get trapped in the body and develop to unresolved trauma, then disease. Can we make our peace with acceptance of all feelings surrounding loss, or is it just too taboo still?
I am about to wrap up another year of study. One more to go until I graduate. It’s been particularly tough keeping on top of assignments, clinics and exams as well as smallholding and family life, and coping with the loss of Dad. I am longing for some respite from my studies and for quiet slow days at home where I don’t need to be anywhere except with my chickens and herbs pulling up the bindweed and watering the tomatoes. I am craving the exact slowness that mid-summer brings, feeling my reserves replenish.
I have been thinking for some time about how to better support this little community here. I appreciate each and every one of you for taking the time to read my words, and share with me this era in my life. To show my appreciation and offer back to my community I am going to start hosting live calls for us to gather from time to time.
If you upgrade to paid subscriber you will enter into this private community as well as have access to the full archive of posts, read my back story and access Naturopathic resources I share here.
I am currently shortlisting the options for themes of discussion and will be inviting paid subscribers to vote before each one so you get to decide what you would like each session to be themed around. I will be sending out a note to paid subscribers shortly with more details, but I am excited to create a small cosy container to offer you a safe space to explore with me any topics of your choice, from Naturopathy and empowered women’s health, to smallholding, buying land for self-sustained living, to growing a conscious business while navigating the big stuff in life. There is a lot we can explore together and these sessions can also be for you to ask me any questions as well.
For now, take care
Izzy x
If you enjoyed this, do leave me a comment or hit the little heart button - it does make me happy x