Striding across the meadow looking as if he’s stepped out of Hardy’s fictional Wessex landscape, Steven McCulloch is wearing a wide-brimmed white hat, a billowing
“Gardening, the act of putting my hands into the soil, saves me time and again.”
I begin to find that the observations I have heard my mothers and mothers-in-law make over the years are now my own – I too have had enough of cooking and Christmases.
“It was brutal, but wasn’t that what nature was, what we were, made brutal by our drive to survive?”
“For small creatures such as we, the vastness is bearable only through love.”
As the light changes I begin to think about the big stuff and Carl Sagan’s wisdoms come to mind.
‘One day Theo handed me a roll of electric fencing. “Hold this for a second, Nels,” he said. “You won’t connect it, will you?” I ask. “Nah, course not,” he says.’
February turns from darkness to light as the days lengthen, life begins to push up out of the earth and we find reasons to have hope.
It isn’t always possible to see that things are changing, it can happen so gradually that it’s hard to detect, or you’re so immersed in