Last night, at my wits' end and just about to break, I insisted we sit down and attack our situation logically, with a permaculture slant - the problem is the solution, right?
After a long and ofen painful evening, facing up to our fears about old age and homelessness, my unhappiness at being indoors all the time, the housing crisis, being called to the land, and sundry other trivial little matters, we kind of formulated a plan.
There was something I didn't like about it though - no instant significant change.
Then this morning, after an early Lidl run, while I was putting the shopping away with one hand and chatting to Jo with the other, it came to me.
Part of our plan is to move out of this rental and find some way to finance our own home. It is going to take a lot of blood, toil, tears and sweat * but we can do it. On this bright spring morning, I was going out into the garden ... but, wait. If we are moving, why am I gardening here?
Surely, if we believe all we've planned, I should be starting a new garden - an allotment of sorts - on our field?
And everything dropped into place. That's our big change. That's our declaration of intent. No garden here this year. Our own allotment, on our own land, to grow and expand into ... who knows what? But as a testament of intent.
|Not here. This is not the garden. This is an upward gaze across the hay meadow.|
Like so many wartime publications, it presupposes a level of skill long since forgotten. Be it knitting, sewing, cooking, gardening, mending ... anything of any use really, these publications prove that the women (and men) of 70 years ago had a skill set that puts us in the shade.
But I'm happy because I'm on the way to my cardi! **
*why does everyone omit the toil and get it in the wrong order? Get it right!
** a link to the pattern can be found here.