Animal/Vegetable/Mineral Tag

15 May Earth Ritual

It is a beautiful day. The sun is shining. Windows and back doors are open. I can hear the boy next door calling to his friend’s Dad in the garden on the other side of us. I feel deeply rooted in this place, and enjoy the friendly connections between people and pets.

I have just returned from a gathering of friends, where conversation about melting glaciers and soil quality sit nestled with tales of frivolity and pleasure. I decide this is a good moment to complete the Earth ritual I have been preparing.

My deep time ancestors would have known rites for honouring the earth, been aware of Mother Nature’s generosity. They would have known how to live, in right-relationship with resources, been in awe of the elements, but I am still finding my way.

This is a practice I have learned from Francis Weller, to offer gratitude to the Earth, in response to ‘The Sorrows of the World’ (from his ‘Gates of Grief’). I have made an intuitive selection of small clay totems – a Beech leaf, a flower, an acorn, a Cowrie shell, a tooth, and a small bowl. I have inscribed “My tears are for…” on the bowl to symbolise the sadness I find hard to express.

In the face of the changes that are happening – weather disruption, bio diversity loss, and carbon emissions, it is easy to feel hopeless. I am working to remain in relationship with the natural world, and my grief, as I recognise my inter-being with the more than human world. A practice of giving thanks and offering gifts can foster this connection. It is a micro action in the face of a prevalent ‘extractive’ attitude to our planet.

Under the magnificent magnolia tree, I dig a hole. Ginger Girl – the cat from next door, (who regularly appears for on-line Grief Tending workshops) shows up. I place my clay offerings into the hole while chanting. Ginger Girl, after inspecting my work, turns to squat. A stream of yellow liquid fills the small bowl. These were not the salt tears I imagined, but present an image of a different kind of regenerative cycle. She then turns back again and scrabbles with her front paws, neatly filling the hole with earth again. She then sits looking satisfied. We both look up, as two of our regular squirrels travel across the branches of the tree above us. I offer apple, oats and incense as further blessings, feeling nature’s magic alive in me.

See here for next Grief Tending events.

22 Nov Crow

During late spring and summer, the Murder of crows on Hackney Marshes has other business to attend to, and politely ignores me. But come the first hint of cooler air in autumn, they seek out my bright colours. We make each other’s re-acquaintance, and I bring offerings of seeds, peanuts and other treats. Whether with or without dog and companions, and whichever direction we approach from, one of them will call several times to alert the others. Like an out-take from ‘The Birds’ they swoop towards us. They are cordial but cautious. I am always gratified by their appearance.

This image, however, is ‘Mr’ crow. He and his family live closer to home. ‘Mrs’ crow is smaller, more timid, and ‘Junior’ is almost as big as Mr, but not quite as bold. Hopping away from me, Mr is disconcerted by my camera. He prefers to see me reach for a handful of seeds. Standing just a few feet away, I admire his shiny black feather tailcoat. He eyes me with an inquisitive look. Tooled up with an impressive black beak, he is always keen to see what food I might have.

As I approach the trees in their territory I look up, in anticipation of three large black winged creatures tacking across the sky, to land near me. If my companions and I are deep in conversation, a loud throaty call overhead, will announce their arrival. I notice that my ears have become attuned to crow voices over the beat of my footfall. Their cries punctuate woodland, street and garden, overseeing each landscape I move through.

26 Sep Squirrel Grab

Winter is coming, and Squiffy is hungry for nuts. The cold wind, and clear nights amplify my awareness of the season turning. She has mastered the ‘how to carry two hazelnuts’ problem. The trick is to shell one to eat now, then there’s room to carry one to bury for later. Her urgency for food is a survival need at this time of year.

While I watch her endeavours to prepare for winter, I notice my own urge to hunker down, to fill my shelf of resources in order to last out what seems like the inevitable coming of another period of lockdown.

My own greed is more of a grasping for something elusive, to fill the hole left by my unmet childhood needs. The chase for the thing that will fill my own void can be enthusiastic, but usually falls on the right side of compulsive. I recognise the potential for addiction, but manage to avoid it.

However, I am regularly tempted by the clever marketing that wants to sell me the supplement, the course, the teacher, the workshop, the book, that will forever heal my sense of lack. My inbox is filled daily with the commodification of experiences that should be freely available in a healthy community, as part of daily life – contemplation, movement, nature, celebration, connection and healing.

My fear of scarcity makes me clutch for what I don’t have, instead of enjoying the bounty that is available. Emails present me with shiny options designed to give me FOMO (fear of missing out). I steel myself to ‘unsubscribe’, to sit tight, watch squirrels, and maybe nibble on an Ombar.

15 Sep White Fox

I have retreated into the shadows. I continue to feel the pressure cooker of Covid 19 times. David Fuller uses Stanislav Grof’s term to describe it as a ‘non specific amplifier’.  This increases the intensity of our experiences, whatever they might be.

My busy mind urges me to step forward into action, but there is a stronger force, which is pressing me back into quiet consolidation. Sitting on the overground, I look up from my notebook to see a poem by John O’Donohue in confirmation.

“This is the time to be slow,
Lie low to the wall…”

Yesterday at my desk, working on the infinite steps of a stop frame animation story, I met another pair of eyes. A young white morphed fox, was slinking through the shrubs, scouting around our garden. White fur caught my attention,  fox’s cloak of invisibility unmasked. Our gazes locked for a moment. A second later, slithering like a fish, it turned back into the undergrowth, and disappeared.

Away from the eyes of the world, I feel as though I have become a strange creature, in a mythic realm where trees talk and animals bring messages. Fox brings the spirit of patience. Attending to my creative task, white tail gone, I continue to allow lines and patches of colour tell another tale.

26 Aug Four Hands on Dog

We have taken our last walk with our decrepit family dog, riding in his pram. Despite loss of sight, hearing, mobility, his nose still scans from left to right to suck in all the smells of his territory like radar. Dementia has stolen the signal between brain and limbs, so he can no longer remember how to sit or lie down. The final blow is his loss of appetite. For the last seventeen years, Pickle’s enthusiasm for food – meat, cheese, treats, pavement bones and raided scraps – has driven him. Despite increasing lack of agility, he has until very recently, been able to topple the cat’s bowl from its shelf, without up-turning it, to scoff her more dainty biscuits.

At this final lunch, we toast him and celebrate his life, remembering the list of close scrapes, relishing his personality quirks. He has remained a loyal, devoted companion to an extended pack, which includes two households and three generations, as well as other pets.

I have been loved steadily and unconditionally by Pickle. His brown eyes and attentive ears have witnessed my every mood. In return, I have thrown balls, sticks, been muddied, pushed his chariot, taken him for regular ‘spa days’ at the vet, carried him up and down stairs, and walked ever more slowly with him. I forgave his anxiety at fireworks, smoke alarms, rioters and thunder, because he calmed mine. During one of several close calls, I sustained an injury, which will mark me for life. It is my capacity to love, which feels expanded. My heart is deeply marked by the depth of my love, in response to his. Four of us place a hand on him, saying our last appreciations and farewells, as tears and snot streaks down my face.

13 Aug Squirrel and Almonds

In the garden studio where I am sitting in three dimensions, a squirrel grabs onto my trousers, and climbs up my leg. “You look like Snow White”, someone quips in the Zoom room, watching the wildlife come close in my screen. This squirrel has become bolder, in search of my stash of almonds. Papers scatter, when she eventually ventures onto my desk, locating my horde. She tries to open the glass jar, but it is resistant to her sharp teeth and dextrous paws.

Our lockdown guests made friends with this grey squirrel, naming her Squiffy. She also visits next door, where she is known as Clara. Easy to identify, with a cut-short tail, inquisitive expression and beguiling eyes, she has become a frequent diner at our bird table, and from my hand. She likes black sunflower seeds, almonds, is partial to acorns, loves to chew on a peach pit, but is mad for hazelnuts.

Squiffy’s presence adds delight to my day, and a bit of magic to the garden, but in my head, I hear the voice of the militant squirrels in Dom Jolly’s ‘Trigger Happy TV’ shouting, “Give us your nuts!”

12 Jul Collander of Cherries

We watch through June, and into July for the perfect moment. The cherries will be at their sweetest, most abundant and usually have dropped in price. Originally a friend with Polish heritage demonstrated how to make cherry vodka. It has become an annual tradition now in our house. We save jars with large openings, from passata or cloudy apple juice. It gives me satisfaction to peel, or scrub off the labels. I wash the cherries. Then, with each one, I make an incision from top to bottom. I winkle out each stone – not exactly keyhole surgery. Although you can just prick them. The pile in the colander diminishes, as the mound of wounded cherries increases. My thumb nail wears down until it feels bitten. My hands are drenched with red juice – like blood, sticky under my nails, staining my cuticles. Tony fills the bottles almost to the top with cherries, then pours vodka on top – making sure that every cherry is covered. Once the tops are screwed on tight, we put them away. They will reappear as Christmas gifts or treats. The alcoholic cherries will be eaten with ice-cream. I don’t drink alcohol, but cherries are one of my favourite fruits. I enjoy the seasonal ritual, gorge myself with cherries in the process. In the winter months I will remember the plump crimson tang of summer fruits.

11 Apr Lemons in Soapy Water

Many things that are not essential have been foregone. Enough food is fundamental. Now each item on the shopping list must be considered and foraged for. I feel as though I am giving each provision due thought, attention and gratitude. A month ago, we had a surfeit of lemons. I froze a bag, and since then have been grating frozen lemon onto dishes and into mugs of hot water. Today we bought more lemons. Hygiene protocols mean that we wash each item that comes into the house. Tony efficiently presides over the sink as our ‘Supplies Operations Manager’. I admire the spectacle of sunlight playing on zest. Lemons, then broccoli and leeks jostle in soap suds. I cook supper. Ingredients are invited like favoured guests to join our culinary spread. Each flavour is a valued addition. Shades of green from roast fennel to avocado and spinach salad with pesto dressing decorate our plates. Mushroom and coconut sauce on pasta spirals completes the tableaux. ‘When life gives you lemons…’

30 Mar Papaya

Papaya, you deliver pleasure with your juicy flesh. Your perfectly ripe, too sweet-ness is matched with the tang of lime juice. Over-ripe, you become sickly. Under ripe, green and firm, I feel cheated. Unless you are shredded in sweet, spicy sauce and sprinkled with chopped peanuts. Behind your yellow unpromising skin lies your gorgeous flesh. Not pink, not orange, but on the cusp where salmon meets sunrise. Cut in two you make a six pointed star, bursting with black seeds. Or longways for vulval symbol of abundance. Any sense of not-enough is banished by the joy of your taste. I slurp and squelch into your intimate parts. Bowel mover, your casket of seeds eaten whole rid the gut of worms. You are ‘papaya’ to me now, but I still recall our first meeting. Nervous, shy 8 year old, I am presented with ‘paw paw’ by my parents’ old friend in the ‘Robinson Crusoe’ in Tobago. Overwhelmed by the strangeness of everything, I discovered that fruit grows on trees in strange shapes and unfamiliar colours. Picky eater, even then it was love at first bite.

05 Jan Wassail

We stand in a South London garden, on this cold bright day. Back to back gardens are sandwiched between two terraces of houses. We burn sage and drink mulled cider and apple juice. We stand a little awkward at first, despite the warmth from the cider, but willing. Bunched together between raspberry bush, which is pinned to wall on the east, and the thin afternoon sunset, which leans over the wall on the west, we make shadows. To wassail means ‘to wish you health’. Wassailing is usually carried out on the new or old twelfth night (5^th or 17^th January). There are different traditions, sprung from Anglo Saxon ones. They involve cider and singing, with an exchange of blessings, walking either from orchard to orchard, or house to house. Today we have been invited to reclaim this old custom that connects us with the seasons. We offer our ‘wassail’ to the apple tree in this garden as a simple acknowledgement, in return for its benevolence later in the year. This is done by pouring a libation (drink poured as an offering) of cider, mulled with apples and spices at the base of the tree. Then we doff our hats and sing. We sing to the cherry and rowan trees too. It’s a short, rousing refrain and it feels good. The youngest member of the group is particularly delighted. We sing once more for good measure.

Oh little apple tree
We have come to wassail thee
Will you bear some fruit for me
When the season changes.