And life lights up, p.5
And Life Lights Up, page 5
But the daffodil is the girl for all occasions. She thrusts her bright, brazen-yellow head up through frozen ground and shouts that it is time to get out of the winter beds and get cracking into spring. She is exactly the stimulant needed to shake the winter cobwebs out of our brains. She will grow anywhere – in a tub, in a window box, under a tree, on the side of a ditch, so if you do not have a garden this girl is happy to be with you wherever you are. Life would be dull without her. And she is great for cutting; definitely the girl for the centre of the kitchen table where she will glow and be a cheerleader for your spirit as it recovers from winter blues. Bring her in and see a smile light up the face of everyone who comes in the door. She looks good in all containers – vases, jars, jugs – on her own or with greenery, and even the slightly regal tulip will be happy to share a bed with her. The daffodil is full of the joy of now.
Sweet Pea
Rain soaked
Summer morning
Tears glistening
On pale pink faces
Of delicate sweet peas.
Easing back their
Curling tendrils
I carefully snip
Their fragile stems.
They arrange themselves
In an old jug
On the kitchen table
Draping over the rim
In multicoloured profusion
Filling the kitchen with
Their exquisite fragrance.
Waiting …
The bishop is late. That should not surprise me. The bishop is always late. He waits for a full house before making his appearance. A head turner, he loves to be admired, to strut his stuff in front of an audience. He likes centre-stage. Just now it might be annoying him that he is not in the front row but far back in the line of performers. The bishop could well be sulking because more obliging dahlias have come out ahead of him and stolen the limelight.
But he has only himself to blame! It gets tiresome waiting for his grand debut. He dallies and dallies until all the performers are on the stage and then bursts forth with royal aplomb. But all this waiting can be very wearisome. While around him other dahlias come forth, roses bloom and sweet peas fill the air with their fragrance, the bishop in the back row stands brooding in his dark moody robes. And it is my job to keep a watchful eye on sullen slugs brazen enough to attempt to damage his finery. Does he appreciate my efforts? Not the tiniest bit, as it is all part to his royal requirements.
But the main bearer of the bishop’s capricious ways is the solid black iron pot which holds him. This is his throne. His Lordship may be annoyed that it is a simple black pot. With a name like the Bishop of Llandaff, his ancestors probably resided in palaces of grand episcopal elegance. In their time these gentlemen did not come from humble mountain cabins.
But my high and mighty bishop probably does not appreciate the fact that this is no ordinary black pot from whose depths he presides. It is a solid iron model with a history as long-rooted and interesting as his own. This pot has made its way down through generations of hardy potato-picking mountainy farmers. So has its own story to tell. For centuries it fed the tillers of the earth and held their tears during hungry days when they had no potatoes to boil. It came back into action when the green stalks bloomed again. So my little pot has a history as ancient and rich as his grace. But while his lordship strode the corridors of power, this little black pot fed the multitudes who kept the crowns on those royal heads and food in their ample bellies. And ne’er the twain did meet.
But now, here in my backyard, the bishop is dependent on my little black pot to provide him with sustenance. This pot, like its ancestors, is sturdy and reliable and will keep this bishop fed and watered until he eventually decides to blossom. His flowing, dark rich finery is deep-coloured, dull and understated. This sobriety will be a better contrast with his brilliant blooms when they finally decide to come forth. In the meantime they are restrained in bulging buds, arched overhead, and bursting with promise.
And so my little black pot and I wait patiently for his grace to come forth. Early each morning I check and still the bishop holds back.
And then one morning it happened! He came forth with the dawn! And now, behind the rows of roses and sweet peas, towers His Grace. His bulging buds have burst open and emerged from the palace door wearing a rich royal red crown. He is magnificent. A showstopper. Glorious beyond all expectations. He glistens, glows and demands: ‘Look at me! Look at me!’ I do just that and life lights up. He was worth waiting for. The bishop has taught me that some things will happen only when the time is right.
The Plantsman
The writing on the envelope told who had sent the letter. The address was in beautiful calligraphy and only one friend can write like that. To look at her writing is a pleasure in itself. The envelope was quite bulky so I wondered about its contents. I sat down in a comfortable armchair and donned my glasses. I felt that a moment to be savoured was about to unfold. As usual, her card was a ‘wow’ one. Don’t you love people who take time to select gorgeous cards! They bring joy in the post.
But it was the little cards within the large card that proved more fascinating. On the little card was a poem written by a mutual friend, Barry, who had died months earlier. She had included a poem card for me and another one for anyone I thought worthy of it. Barry was a once-off creation and his wonderful garden centre was an extension of himself. His little poem, like himself and his garden centre, was a blessing.
Hidden behind rows of trees his garden centre was a secret treasury of wonder. You had to search around West Cork corners to find it, but once discovered you were drawn back like a bee to a honey pot. It personified the sensible advice that the good businessman gave his son: ‘Son, if you want to sell, go where the people are; but if you have what the people want, the people will beat a path to your door.’ Many of us beat a path to Barry’s gate. A lifetime of knowledge and expertise was behind that gate. The limited parking space was edged by a steel creation laden with bird feeders, so that on arrival you were greeted by flights of birds, and in summer a bevy of hanging baskets.
Then you walked along on level ground between rows of healthy rose bushes and perennial plants, then gently climbed upwards until finally you were on a hilltop edged by giant Olearia trees. On your journey upwards you could curve off in many directions to discover surprising hidden corners. But probably the greatest treasure of all was his selection of trees, all carefully labeled to guide the less well-informed – and Barry was always on hand to advise and guide on the wisdom of choice. He loved his trees and undoubtedly over the years contributed greatly to the wise planting and preservation of trees all over West Cork.
As he grew older and frailer he still walked with his beloved little dog around his garden centre and gently guided and advised. The day that he died I walked around my own garden and thanked him for all the blessings with which he had enriched my life.
A Blessing
May you never be afraid of growing old. Count the seasons, not the years.
May each of the four seasons bring you something new, wonderful and beautiful.
May the gentle and serene song of the robin in the dull days of winter fill you with joy as you realise he sings in anticipation of the coming spring.
May the wondrous notes of the blackbird in the hush of the summer’s evening fill your heart with songs of praise to Him who gives such pleasures in His creation.
May you never feel you have lost your way as you travel the circle of life. For as sure as the leaves fall in autumn and winter, buds are already forming for yet another spring. So when you are old in years, already you are putting on the blooms of eternal youth to live forever with Him who said, ‘I am the Way, the Truth and the Life.’
Composed by Barry G. Shanahan (1929-2017)
In fond remembrance of a saintly soul who walked amongst us and guided our planting.
An Old Tree
She is my refuge, my restorer … my friend. She can absorb my many moods and meet many needs. She is a companion through the year, through all seasons. She is truly the star performer in the garden.
In May she bursts into gorgeous pink apple blossom. A joy to behold! She brings to mind the first film that I ever saw, Maytime, starring Jeanette MacDonald and Nelson Eddie. That was a long time ago. But her roots stretch back to long, long before that time. She is really the grand old dame of the garden, and she knows how to put on a show. But she is not all about show. Within her pink blossoms are the seeds of her future crop of apples. She is about to set out on her annual voyage of apple production and she begins with a flourish.
During the winter months she rests quietly in the centre of the garden not really making her presence felt. Then she is bare-branched, with sections of her ample trunk spreading out in different directions into the earth around her. All garden paths lead to her. Her dark, gnarled, twisted branches dominate the skyline. With the passage of time, some of her lower branches have cracked and fallen away, leaving short, lichen-covered stubs protruding from her ivied trunk. These are perfect hangers for bird feeders and over winter the birds fly in flurries around her bare base. Against her trunk is an old seat on which many have rested body and mind down through the years. Facing south and surrounded by low-growing shrubs, she provides a sheltered corner in winter and a cool canopy in summer when she has her coat on.
To rest beneath an old tree is a balm for tired minds. Many days I have sought her out when I was in need of physical and mental respite, and she has never failed to come good. Gradually, as you sit with her, she slows you down. Her tranquility spreads into your body and eventually you sit easy. Then, ever so gently, the tranquility seeps into your mind. You become focused on what is all around you, and you are where you are. So often we are not where we are. We are all over the place. Splintered like sawdust with our minds full of chaff. Nature calmly clears that chaff and centres us back within ourselves. A good place to be.
Now it is May and above her quiet, solid base her branches are coming alive. Beautiful pink buds are budding forth from her soft green lichen-covered branches. She is quietly getting ready for the fruiting season ahead. Every year we think that this year it will not happen, but the old tree begins again. She is self-perpetuating. It is an annual miracle. The little apples begin to appear and slowly over the summer months grow bigger and bigger. An occasional one plops to the ground and is welcomed by the birds, wasps and hungry, unidentifiable garden bugs. But the bulk of the apples cling firmly to her arching branches. They shall not be moved!
But, come September, the time to move them has arrived. For the picking of any apple tree, a dry day is best, but when asking this queen to part with her bounty it is vital, as otherwise her enormous branches would drench you with rain. She was planted long before the arrival of the finely nurtured species that will grow to an exact height and width, thus making apple picking a reach-up-from-the-ground job. This grand old lady has never had her tresses trimmed, never been introduced to a curtailing pruner, and so has been free to grow her own way. She is all over the place, reaching for the sky and stretching out over half the garden. Collecting her apples is a test of courage, balance and dexterity. You need to have the climbing skills of a monkey and the long arms of the giant in ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’. But there is a man for every job, the only difficulty is to find him! I have a man for all seasons who is capable of doing all things that come his way. And not only can he do it, but he does it with great goodwill and a merry heart.
And so up he crawls along the branches, and on the lower branches he succeeds in getting most of the apples straight into a bucket. But as he goes higher, the job of holding onto the branches requires all his concentration lest he crash-land down into the rose bushes, so we have to settle for shaking the branches. This sends down a cascade of apples. I scramble around hastily to collect these before the next shower makes pulp of those already landed.
You need to keep your wits about you to duck out of the way of earth-bound apples, but it is very invigorating. By lunchtime all the apples have landed, or at least as many as are get-at-able. It is time for lunch, which we decide to enjoy under our now almost denuded tree. It is resting time for body and mind. We survey a job half-done!
Then back to business and we gather up all the apples, filling up rows of boxes with them. They are all sizes and shapes – big, small, bumpy and gnarled, some still sprouting bits of branches. Once boxed, they are borne into the back porch where they are laid out in rows along by the wall. They are a glorious sight and fill the back porch with the unmistakable wild earthy smell of freshly picked apples. The smell permeates into the house, causing callers-in to remark, ‘You’ve picked the apples!’ and I ask hopefully, ‘Do you want a box?’
The arrival of the boxes of apples into the back porch heralds a day of apple-tart making. These apples, owing to their mode of picking, are not long-lasting. So the time for baking is now. The grand old lady of the garden has done her bit. Now it is my turn.
Part 4
Small Kindnesses
You held out a caring hand
When I was full of pain;
You thawed my frozen being
And made me live again.
The Black Bubble
Grief crashed in through the front door, flooded every room and swept out the back door, leaving an all-encompassing sludge of desolation. It paralysed me both mentally and physically. I had not known that bereavement submerged your physical as well as your mental strength. It brought exhaustion with it. It was a huge effort to do anything, a huge effort even to drag myself out of bed in the morning – but to stay there was to be buried under blankets of desolation. The night rekindles the trauma of the experience of loss and in the morning you awaken under waves of despair. A friend who had walked the grief road advised: ‘As soon as you wake, get out of bed and straight into the shower. The bed could kill you.’ I had no idea if she was right or wrong, but to me this was a frightening foreign zone and she had survived it. She had been there, so she must know what she was talking about. I did as she told me. Then a health guru, who was also a friend, advised that before getting out of the shower you should turn it to cold. A daunting prospect! I yelled with the shock as the freezing water hit me. But it got me moving into the day.
Then the day stretched ahead with no sense or meaning to it. For the funeral you go on auto-pilot and the rituals keep you functioning and moving on. Then it is all over and you are back in the real world. But the real world that you had known is no longer there. You are now living in a black bubble. Outside of it the world that you remember continues to function. But you are not part of it anymore and have no desire to be. How are you to survive without the old structures? You stumble blindly on and grasp at every little aid that eases the pain, even temporarily.
As you journey on you fall into little healing pools. They appear out of the blue and you stumble into them, and they give you temporary respite and the strength to try to keep going on. It could be a chat by a warm fire with a good friend, a walk through a wood, a lovely piece of music, a beautiful flower, a heavenly smell, digging the garden. Kind and understanding friends are the greatest help. Gradually all these comforting experiences begin to weave you back to wholeness. They reach out and encompass you and very slowly you reawaken into a new world. Not the world you once knew, but a different world. And this world has its own beauty. The past is gone and you remember it with gratitude. But your time is now, and gradually you discover that now is precious.
Kindness
The warmth of your kindness
Kept me in my mind;
Its worth could not be measured
It had goodness undefined.
You held out a caring hand
When I was full of pain;
You thawed my frozen being
And made me live again.
Beautiful Mind
Standing in a tall, slim, elegant vase on the kitchen table a single red rose filled the air with its beautiful smell. The very sight of it warmed my heart and welcomed me home. I knew that Maureen had called because the red rose was her calling card.
Years previously we had both watched Brother Mitchell plant a rose bed in his monastery garden. His roses were all the same rich red and when you stooped to sniff, they enfolded you in their gorgeous deep aroma. Mitch, as we called him, was the bursar at the nearby monastery and kept all their financial affairs in meticulous order.
But when his day’s work was done, the other side of Mitch came alive. Then he cast aside all the trappings of work and donned a long, ragged, knitted jumper and an old woolly hat that had long lost its claim to being a fashion accessory. He grasped his wheelbarrow with loving delight and headed for the gardens, where he cracked into action. There he came alive with creativity and enthusiasm.
There he grew all his flowers and produce from seeds, laying them out lovingly in long, precise rows of perfection. In early spring he brought the seedlings forth from his cloches and greenhouse, and spread the results of his labours around the monastery garden. Not given to long-winded conversation, he smiled benignly at you from a distance and kept focused on the job in hand. You felt that you should not stop the flow of his creativity. But should you come on him between jobs, he would lean on his garden spade and engage you in a delightful exchange. After a few moments of chat, a light would go on in your mind and you became aware that this man was connected with his God out here in his garden as much as in the monastery chapel. When you sensed that it was time to move on, you reluctantly said goodbye and walked away feeling that the world was a better place than you had thought.
