In spate

Dartmoor has been in spate recently, as have I. Beautiful, holy, filthy, cleansing water has poured from us and we are better for it. We have what we need to grow. Our usual roads have become flooded, or blocked by fallen trees, decades old, which cannot withstand this day. It is sad to see them go, but what can we do but chainsaw them up and get things moving again?

An eerie hailstorm hovered on the horizon when Pickle and I emerged for our morning walk. I faltered, but she would not turn from the wind, opening her mouth wide to be filled with its power. We walked out, she in the moment of  skittish leaves and rolling bins, me with one eye on the new world of colour creeping closer.

Just as we got to the bottom of our hill, home almost within sight, the heavens heaved and crystals of burning cold ice whirled round us, whisking inside sleeves and forcing eyes shut. Even Pickle wanted to be carried, her head under my wing, the sky suddenly less friendly than she can remember. And I, so full of anxiety projected onto this massive cloud a moment before, felt a honeyed relief. The ice had come, it had stung us like a swarm of Narnian bees, but I could shelter my girl and keep walking up the hill. I could get us home safe. I can't tell you how much I want to get us all home safe.

And we have had days of light too. More than we dare expect of such a season. We drove to the centre of the moor for pub grub and, more importantly, this view:

I could stand there all day. A moment before I took this a herd of ponies galloped across the road and swirled in eddies below me, the wind flowing through them from mane to tail.

Standing here reminds me of being in the same spot, feeling the same awe and gratitude for this space, this gluttonous quantity of healthy land, when behind me I heard the rustle of a map and a man say, 'This is definitely the place, but why's it a viewpoint? There's nothing here.' I wonder how often I fail to appreciate unsignposted wonders.

Light has come in other ways too, from our friends locally, far away, and through the big eye of this interweb creature. Those of you who read this post will understand how touched I was to receive this:

It will be treasured. These days will be treasured. I may be scared, but I am awake, and the world is full of love.

Gruel Sky

The gruel sky hangs dark and low.
I am cowed.
One vulnerable ribbon,
pulsing in the winds,
shines blue.
In that blue
a buzzard
luxuriates
on a winter thermal.
I can breathe, for now.

Stomping out the fear

My husband, too ill to move, signals for a kiss from his bed.

Our daughter races ahead of me and wins the prize.

Losing never felt so good.


Another small stones month. I'll write one whenever I'm here, but that won't be much. Thomas is leaking energy daily, and with it strength and colour. Pickle is volcanic with energy - many walks a day, ever increasing, and phenomenal rages when thwarted. She feels our fear too, and wisely takes our feet, hers and mine, to stomp it across fields, leave it in little piles under trees, scatter it on the fierce winds which whip round us every night or into the newly thunderous streams. Sometimes she just stops and roars. So do I. Sometimes she just stops and cries. So do I. Sometimes she just wants her mum to carry her. So do I. But I am the mum. That's feeling heavy right now; heavy with responsibility and with privilege and black hole-heavy with love.

Our future is unknown; could hold anything, just like yours. 2012, the Age of Kali Ma, Mayan prophecies, squabbling consultants wielding power they cannot hold, the greatest heart I know struggling to tick-boom like it needs to... whatever. It's cold and wet and windy and muddy and dark outside and we've got some stomping to do.