These blossoms are ever so pretty:
Previous years I’ve grown the regular variety, like this:
…but the full-blossomed petunias are prettier. Red ones on the middle picture still have the regular blossoms too but in the future I might switch over to only that type of blossom.
Isn’t it a little bit wonderful, and curious, how people, what with all their self-centredness, take an interest in the world, and I don’t mean the world of other humans (like me with my interest in human nature), their ways, motivations and creations , but in things completely out of the humanosphere – like birds and mosses. What drives a person to want to understand the life of mosses? What is it to us how these mosses live in the forest? The possibility of learning something beneficial to us, such as discovering medicinal properties of plants or finding things in the behaviour of higher animals that could add to our understanding of human behaviour, yes. There is that. But, but. It’s not always that.
The world that comes off from the poetry of John Clare is so wholesome and inviting. I want that world to be mine one of those days. And even if I cannot write in words, because written poetry is really not my forte, I can experience the poetry of things and learn the names and ways of various birds and plants and trees. I can live in that world instead of reading about it and sighing and pretending the little forest grove and meadow near my ugly house is countryside. Well, I suppose it kind of is countryside, but regardless. I want to see that:
……when I look out of the window.
And this poem is ever so pretty:
All nature has a feeling: woods, fields, brooks
Are life eternal: and in silence they
Speak happiness beyond the reach of books;
There’s nothing mortal in them; their decay
Is the green life of change; to pass away
And come again in blooms revivified.
Its birth was heaven, eternal it its stay,
And with the sun and moon shall still abide
Beneath their day and night and heaven wide.
Having grown up lived on poetry like this and nothing modern, the challenge of writing contemporary nature poetry has a strange appeal. But.
I don’t live in the nicest area or the nicest house, but one great redeeming factor is the proximity of the forest and coastal meadows. Even if one day I will be living in a nicer house, in a prettier spot, it’s doubtful whether there’d be woods or seaside within such a short walking distance.
I’m glad I have these places to go to for walks. Most towns or districts don’t have a lot of pleasant wildness, with a low number of other people disturbing the enjoyment of nature.
I missed the forest and seaside a lot when I lived in a different town, totally inland, with no sea and even no forest groves at all. That town had only tiny pathetic parks you could walk through in 10 minutes. Provided you take it extra slow. To me, that’s no walk – a proper walk is 3 km or thereabouts.
Sometimes I don’t feel like walking quite so much, so I take a bike. And walk with it by my side when I change my mind.
My camera and photographic skills are not good enough to get a decent shareable image of the forest, but there really is one. It’s there behind the meadow.
It’s a challenge to talk about dreams. The true dreams, not the things one wants out of life or the things they dream about at night. Those are easy. The former are part of one’s identity and the content of the second you are not responsible for. If I should night-dream of being engaged to Delboy, I could share it with everyone and have a laugh. If I should daydream about it, on the other hand, people would most certainly think I have a major crush on him and that I have bad taste in men.
And that’s why sharing dreams is so difficult, so unwise. People tend to take them seriously. They become something quite other when shared. Frankly, even I would be more inclined to take them seriously once brought to the real world. While they are swimming around in my head, being nothing but stray thoughts and fancies, I’m not responsible for them. They are mine, but are not part of my identity. They are just visitors. Some I spend a little time with and hear them out, others are but fleeting glimpses into possibilities I want nothing to do with. Being prone to daydreams is part of my identity, but the substance of my dreams is an amorphous thing. I’ve never tried to define it or paid particular attention to it.
Sometimes, when I become conscious of the content of my dreams – most of the time I’m not – I can be a little surprised and amused. What on earth did I just dream of? Hold your horses, where do you think you are going with your thoughts? But of course, I usually carry on and pay no attention to reason or rightness.
I don’t dream very often these days. When I was younger, my favourite thing was to daydream myself to sleep. Sometimes I was quite annoyed when sleep came and I had to continue the following night. I even remember some of my dream landscapes. Things like a certain yellow wooden house with two-storeys. I lived in the upper storey and had a view of a vast empty field. Such dreams I indulged in and made permanent companions of for long periods of time. Maybe those would be part of my identity.
But then there is the other kind, the one-time dreams. Let’s suppose I entertained the thought of what a great monarch I’d make and how I’d rule the world. If I spoke of it publicly – if I said I’ve dreamt of ruling the world (or Europe) – I’d be taken more seriously than I’d ever have meant it. Psychologists would prick up their ears: hmm, delusions of grandeur? Narcissistic or bipolar personality disorder? Mania episode?
And so, one fancy is taken out of the millions and added to my personality map. I don’t mean to say that the things I daydream about have no connection to who I am and are unwanted intrusions, but that there are so many one-time idle fancies of no significance that extracting any would lead to severe misunderstandings. So they stay in the dream world. All the bizarre, evil and too beautiful things alike. My dream world really has no boundaries other than those of the imagination.
I can share a few, but most stay where they belong.
And now, one totally unembarrassing and uncontroversial dream: I caught myself missing the presence of flowers. To the point that if I had any space and not a cat that eats everything when in a bad mood, I’d get ten pot plants and fill ten vases with various flowers. Daffodils, roses, more daffodils, and hyacinths. Such a longing for colours and scents. I’m going to spam the blog with flower pictures as a result.
These little white flowers smell the best! Even if they don’t look like much theirs is one of my favourite scents.
This is my own peony. I was so proud of it when it actually blossomed for the second year.
There’s a delicious storm outside and since the blog has not yet had a post dedicated to this phenomena, what better time for it.
I’m not entirely sure why I love stormy days as much as I do. It’s just one of those things that you love without knowing why. Like cats, books or strawberry ice cream.
Although I like sunny and warm days, they don’t quite touch my soul. They are lovely and warming, but seem to lack the X factor. Maybe it is because the essence of a pretty summer day is not compatible with the core of my nature. I’ve seen too much of the darker side and have a contemplative, melancholy turn of mind, even if I do indulge in careless, childish abandon every once in a while, and am a rather optimistic sort.
Or maybe it is just my love of wild things. Uncontrollable, powerful, and yet not absolutely life-threatening (we don’t get hurricanes here anyhow, so I don’t actually know, but I assume I’d be very scared). Things that toss you about and play on your emotions, but don’t absolutely destroy or control you. Maybe it is a kind of partnership, really. The storms within being released and running with the storms outside. But like classical music, wordless, just pure feeling and chance of communion.
One of my favourite childhood memories is being at sea with a storm. How the boat tossed and the winds blew. People were falling over, but I, with the childlike lacking sense of danger, was absolutely gloriously happy. I also loved “swimming” on a stormy day, jumping into the waves and being thrown back towards the shore with them. It is little wonder then that water sports figure in my list of dreams.
And lastly, imagine the joy of returning home after being outside with a storm. Or the choice or chance not to venture out at all and relish the safety and warmth of the indoors. Today, I’m opting to stay at home – to write, sip tea, read and contemplate my future. Storms make being indoors seem a little magical, don’t they? I definitely love both being with them first-hand and observing them from indoors.
