"Wild Geese"
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You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.”
- Mary Oliver, Dream Work
In the long dark days, before light was at our command, we wore Winter like a coat. But somewhere between technology and consumerism, it became maniacal. Folk stopped paying Nature any mind. The money men conspired and before we knew it, the inherent need to retreat and fatten up, became instead, resolutions and guilt trips.
I often liken myself to Boxer from George Orwell’s Animal Farm. The cart horse who worked himself to death because (Napoleon the Pig aside) believed “any problem can be solved if one works harder”.
Growing up rest and self-care were seen as lazy, selfish, and indulgent. This did instil in me a solid work ethic, but it also led to an annihilative approach to my own health and well-being. Such are the demons bestowed upon me.
In my defence, self-sustainability leaves little time for self-care. But flu and a fucked back made me finally see sense. The four weeks of December felt like a year; it was time to heed Mother Earth’s advice.
My return to social media, particularly Instagram was reluctant. But I wanted to share my art. However, it didn’t take long to realise things had changed. The platform is now a quagmire with algorithms that shift like sinking sand. Add to that the daily pressure of having to create innovative reels, posts, and stories. It takes hours and hours and hours and, ironically halts creative flow. It’s nigh on impossible to keep up without compromising your craft. Insta demands evermore.
The first winter here went by in a blur. The second we were just happy to have electric. This one, I sat somewhere between resignation and resistance. I couldn’t figure out the difference. But it’s like looking through the thicket, sometimes you can’t see the wood for the trees. Then it hit me. In 2022 I was social media free. While it wouldn’t be fair to blame Meta entirely for my mental misery, the devil is in the details.
That year was dedicated to our life off-grid, my time spent outdoors and in nature. Simple but sorely missed pleasures, such as having the time to read and read some more. Getting my hands dirty planting dreams and nurturing notions. Walking without counting steps. Chopping logs and carrying water. The primal satisfaction of hard graft. Then feet up in front of the fire with a day well done. Sitting in silence staring into the flames, dram in hand as logs cackle and spit.
Setting up a business take time and effort; I’ve been there done that before. I’m proud of the fact that I did again while living in a teeny tiny caravan. Nor do I have regrets, life’s too short for those. Thanks to Insta I have met some truly amazing and talented creatives. Made dear friends, and been inspired and educated.
But to make Foggy Bummers a success it required a sacrifice. Even though it wasn’t my intention, I fell back into bad habits, working ridiculously long hours and ignoring the warning signs. The difference now is I’m fifty odd years old with a small holding to tend. And one can only bend so far before something breaks.
"I'm sorry if you couldn't find me.
I have been in the woods.
I put myself there because I couldn't be good.
I have been running with foxes and hunting with crows,
and I have found myself a home where nobody goes"
- Florence Welch, Useless Magic
So, this year I made the decision to step back from the socials and the business. To take a load off my husband who kindly carried the can throughout 2023. He’s been home the whole of January and we’ve spent most of it in the garden. Preparing her for Spring and planning for the growing year ahead.
We lost track of time taking long walks deep into the heart of the forest. I fulfilled a dream to own horses again rehoming from World Horse Welfare. Welcoming Dusty the Fell Pony and Storm the New Forest into the fold. Stashed the log store, for round these parts the Cailleach doesn’t lessen her grip until at least March.
Better still, December saw the build begin. The foundations are done, and the frame arrives in two weeks. To my disbelief, the builder reckons we will be in early Summer. With regard to the socials, I intend to dip in and dip out. This year my focus is on writing and illustrating my children's book without interference. Making our new house a home and gardening, in particular growing a wildflower cutting patch.
It may be brutal, but I am glad for Winter, she is the essential rest from the wheel of the mind. Her rawness is the peace of wild things, with Winter comes wisdom.
Despite what my demons may say, I am not flawed nor is it inertia, this is hibernation, and I am Nature. Just as the sun and moon hang low in skeleton sky, midwinter strips you back to the bares bones. It is time to wrap the earth around me and make my bed. And from the warmth of the womb, retreat to lick my wounds.
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If only I were as thin as my patience. Because the last six months have been exasperating, with our patience and pockets stretched transparent. Like an elastic band, one wonders how far it can stretch before it finally snaps. But it didn’t and we are almost there. The builder is in place, we’ve signed off on the mortgage and our solicitor is crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s as we speak...
This year has gone by in the blink of an eye, and despite the hurdles we’ve continued to nurture this place we call home. We extended the garden and once we sussed out how to stop the slugs, the vegetables thrived. September saw the Lovell clan grow by four with the addition of Dougal, Hamish, Wullie and Shaun, our Valais Blacknose sheep. But decided to see the house underway before taking on the Highland Cows. Sadly, we lost one of our chickens, plucky wee Insky, a few months back. We also had to rehome Plonker the Magpie duck because he was an aggressive arsehole. Duck or chicken, like The Krays neither was safe from his thuggery. Such are the joys of small-holding.
I woke this morning to the first hard frost of the year. Blanketing the meadow and reminding how fast the seasons fly once one passes forty. But I don’t write to bemoan the Crone, but rather to celebrate her.
'We are stardust,
We are golden,
And we've got to get ourselves
Back to the garden.’
- Woodstock
K Lovell
Speaking of sage women, yesterday saw songstress and matriarch of modern music, Joni Mitchell celebrate her eightieth birthday. When I think of Joni, she reminds me of home. Of listening to Simon and Garfunkel, Scott Mackenzie and The Mamas and Papas with my Ma. The music of freedom was her escape and it would become mine. She introduced me counterculture and all things Californian. Six degrees of separation led me to Laurel Canyon. To the sounds of Jim Morrison, The Eagles, Carole King, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, and ultimately Joni Mitchell.
It’s rare when I’m lost for words but when it comes to describing my depth of feeling for Joni Mitchell and her music, they fail me. I fear whatever I say would pale in comparison, such is her skill.
She writes in tongues, the spirit conjurer.
The voice of nature, like the geese that bring with them Autumn on their wings.
Or the ravens that have taken up residence in the pines behind our house. They’re strange calls, a sound like no other perhaps except for her’s. As with Frank Sinatra, Joni’s voice is the musical instrument. The unique way she plays guitar, magically coaxing chords as her lyrics lick at your wounds. I keep a small black book by my beside, in it are her lyrics. A song for the asking, each the sound of colour.
Blue; the seagulls stand stark against the granite grey blue of the brooding North Sea. The soundtrack like the tides, pull and tug at my heart strings.
Remembering folks loved and lost.
Of my Granda and days spent oot fishing in Queenie Arab, his wee ripper boat. So named after his birthplace.
Prior to 1800’s, the fishing town of Peterhead was separated by the North and South Harbours. To cross from one to the other, you had to go by boat. Folks who lived on the North side or Keith Inch were said to “bide o’er the Queenie.”
As for the Arab reference it is rather sketchy and certainly not, politically correct. So I’ll skip that. In time, Peterhead grew to become the biggest white fish port Europe, and in response installed a state of the art drawbridge, aptly named the Queenie Bridge.
Early mornings were my favourite. The rhythmic chug of the engine contrasted by the cut of the motor. Rocking slightly as the sea cradled the boat, watching as the petrol made liquid rainbows in the water. A sunrise that reflected back in hues of gold. Or dark blue days when a salt tang on the wind portend storm coming.
Albeit it took a few lessons, but I learned how to handle crab and lobster without losing a finger. To always put the juveniles and small catch back. How to gut and fillet a fish, how their scales stick and stuck glittering on my skin. To use the waste as bait or to feed the dog-headed seals that followed the boat. Bar the seagulls, there was never a soul to be seen, and it felt like the world belonged to us.
Joni’s lyrics are relentless and unapologetic, the waves of emotion and nostalgia crash over me; taking me back to the deep blue where things are more than just a memory.
-Blue, Joni Mitchell
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“May I a small house and large garden have;
And a few friends,
And many books, both true.”
Yes, at times it’s been challenging, particularly for me as my hubby works away a month at a time. This Winter almost broke me. Our van’s old and basic. She has no insulation, double glazing or flushing toilet. The log burner heats the living area but that's it. You know it's cold when the bottled water that's stored indoors is frozen. Whilst the problem is rectified, damp and mould play havoc with a compromised immune system. I'm over the worst of it but a few days at -10 would test even Whim Hof.
I’ve never been one to take things for granted but as cliched as sounds, it really is the little things. Without insulation and basic heating, the van never really warms up. Essentially, it’s equivalent to living in a metal tent. Everything is cold to the touch; cutlery, plates, the toilet seat, your clothes. One has to brace themselves before getting dressed of a morning.
The shower is decent considering but the water doesn’t drain quickly, so you dread stepping in. My already cold feet really don’t appreciate the chilly water that’s now pooled in the shower tray. Speaking of feet, even with sheepskin slippers, you can’t have your tootsies linger on the floor too long, else you’ll lose circulation. Or when you’ve been grafting and your mucket and frozen. And all you want is hot water, but it’s off. Plus there’s a fire to light and then you realize you’ve forgotten to chop the kindling!
The secret to staying warm is to keep moving and we do spend most of our time outdoors. But when your exhausted and the weather is shitty, it can grind you down. As I say, it really is the little things.
With self-sustainable living, there’s no long lies or days off. We’ve haven’t had either in a year and a half. Keeping animals requires dedication, they rely entirely on you for their welfare, 365. This husbandry made all the harder in Winter. This last month, there’s been two extreme colds snaps. Waking to approx. eight inches of snow and a frozen hose pipe meant to clean the duck ponds, I had to manually decant and refill them from the water butts using a bucket. A full one weighs approx. 25kg and to do both ponds required me to do that forty times.
I’m stubborn and fortunately, when it comes to stamina, I can keep going long after my brain tells me to stop. And thanks to weight lifting, I discovered I’m freakishly strong. Whilst that’s immensely empowering, I often wondered what was the point of it. Now it makes sense. Turns out I was in training for a life off grid, I just didn’t know it!
Life here is idyllic but it’s not baskets, bare feet n floaty frocks. This is a life that can’t be curated. There’s no way I’d pad around here without footwear either, there’s way too many ticks for that. Plus for six months of the year it’s like a paddy field. Clay soil is great for growing but it holds the water. Mud is the bane of my life.
We decided long before the move, in order to save for the house and build the homestead, not to buy anything new (unless absolutely necessary) and to repurpose and recycle as much as possible. Make good use of the things that we find; things that the every day folks leave behind. If you know where to look and who to barter, it’s there for the salvaging. Plus it’s amazing what you can do with a pallet! As is what's considered waste.
Twas’ the night before the Winter Solstice, a year to the day since we moved to An Taigh Dubh; so here’s a wee story from me to you…
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𝔽á𝕚𝕝𝕥𝕖
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Honouring the first Luna of 2023, aptly named the Wolf Moon with a wee blog post celebrating the lupine in us all.
Wild Women into the forest we go, with a nose to the wind, walk with me among ponderous Pines and whispering Birch. We shall sit a while beneath the Mother Tree and feel the ancient beat of her heartwood. Merge with warmth of the undergrowth as we talk of old tails in new skin.
For stories are medicine but fairytales deceive. As Nikita Gill writes "I guess to them, it's a terrifying thought, a Red Riding Hood that knew exactly what she was doing when she invited the wild in."
You were wild once too, feral, a half-human creature thing; with a kiss that birthed and toppled nations. Our essence stitched into the fabric of time. Woven in contrasts of dark and light. An expression of Nature both benevolent and ferocious.
Goddess. Daughter of the Cailleach. Child of Kali; the cosmos itself. The Mohicans say that at the birth of the sun and of his brother the moon, their mother died. So the sun gave to the earth her body, from which was to spring all life. And he drew forth from her breast the stars, and the stars he threw into the night sky to remind him of her soul.
Unruly women are always witches.
No matter what century we're in.
- Roxanne Gay
madadh-allaidh is Scot's Gaelic for wolf, it's presence in these lands sadly missed and long since exterminated. Men fear what they do not understand. Hate what they can't understand. Kill what they hate. In Women Who Run with Wolves, Estés writes "both women and wolves have been hounded, harassed and falsely imputed. The predation of wolves and women is strikingly similar."
Pre-Christianity women were worshipped as goddesses. The sex act considered a sacred communion, the merging of two cosmic energies, the vulva revered.
But that power came at a price and it allure became the Church's eternal struggle. And so desperate were they to kill their lust, they set snares and set us ablaze. Yet perversely, society was taught to fear the witches and not the people who burned them alive.
Growing up, I was more than a little feral preferring the outdoors, bare feet and freedom. As a young woman the doctrine corseted and caged me; and I stopped running free. But with age comes Crone and I have since replaced constraints with the sable beat of my wild. The shadow that trots behind me is definitely four footed.
We have lost our connection with Nature and thus ourselves. But she is not a distant place outside our realm as they would have you believe. Mother Earth resides within us all. Remember you are cunning and in spite of their malaise; thrive. For we are the granddaughters of the witches they couldn't burn.
So this year instead of resolutions, think revolution. For we are the cunning folk. Destroy what has been sold you about gender. Of femininity and masculinity and let it heal the wild parts of your heart. Let's sharpen our instincts together and with bared teeth, tear the System apart.
Blessed Be 🖤
]]>This is my homage to Scottish Modernist writer and poet, Nan Shepherd.
Feyness is the iridescent exhilaration that comes over climbers, making them appear in Shepherd’s words “a little mad in the eyes of those who do not climb”.
The design is inspired by my love of Nan’s writing and the mountain memoir The Living Mountain. As a keen hillwalker, her words are as essential as a map and compass. It is my hope that the artwork will guide more people to Shepherd
and her writing, so they can see nature through her eyes. Perhaps then, they will care a little more for the very thing that sustains us all. However small the change, as Greta Thunberg proves, you are never too wee to make a difference.
I was overjoyed when I received the news that my submission had been chosen. For my art to represent Scotland and the crucial discussion of Climate Change is a huge honour. To be in presence of not only other talented creatives but my hero, Sir David Attenborough is a dream come true.
My submission also proves it's wise to ignore that inner saboteur and it's always worth giving it a go, the worst they can say is no x
Glasgow Science Centre
With regard the plot move, inevitably, the pandemic slowed things down. But much of it was legal process. The joys of purchasing a plot in the middle of a forest. Turns out the seller only had the right to grant us access to half the track up to the plot. The other half belonged to the Forestry, and we could hear our solicitor rubbing his hands.
We bought a wee static caravan and as soon as, it will be moved to the plot. However, thanks to Covid and folks holidaying at home, statics were in short supply. So options were limited to a fixer upper. But it's nothing a lick of paint and a bit of imagination can't fix. That said, it doesn't have double glazing, insulation or a flushing toilet. I reckon the three weeks my hubby's gone a month, I'll have the dogs in the bed with me for extra warmth. There's also no drainage, so it's a composting toilet for us. Just as well my hubby and I know each other intimately.
The last year has definitely been a learning curve and a lesson in patience. And we haven't even started the build yet. But despite the many ups and downs, we are almost there. Planning permission should be any day now and then it's all systems go.
"And all the lives we ever lived
and all the lives to be
are full of trees
and changing leaves"
- Virginia Woolf
However, despite life's uncertainties, one thing that's always constant is the changing of the seasons. As sure as the return of the pink-footed geese with their recognisable klaxon ushering Autumn in.
Autumn is my favourite; when leaves offer amber hues as if they know the weight of Winter. But it's not just her beauty. Here on the N East Coast of Scotland, the bitter winds tend to make Winter and Spring blend into one. Until one day you wake up and the snowdrops have sprung. Plus I'm not built for Summer, it makes me feel disjointed. But then Autumn arrives and puts me back together again.
The season is etched in my bones - a connection to my kin.
"By the pricking of thumbs, something wicked this way comes."
- William Shakespeare, Macbeth
For centuries, witches were considered healers; people that aligned with Mother Nature. Some were midwifes, homeopaths and herbalists. That was until The Church decided they weren't, sin was in and the vulva was where it was at. So in a bid to kill their lust, women mostly, were persecuted, tortured and murdered in the name of God's unconditional love.
In 1563 the Queen's Act against witchcraft was introduced in Scotland. The practice of witchcraft, a crime punishable by death. Established by King James the VI and I of Scotland, the son of Mary, Queen of Scots. He believed his return journey from Denmark had been cursed and the blamed the perilous journey on witches. It is said that Shakespeare wrote Macbeth at the behest of the King. A story of witchcraft and regicide written in order to flatter and appease his paranoia. Such was James influence, the persecution was to sweep across Europe like the plague.
In Scotland it was known as the Great Witch Hunt of 1597 which is believed to have begun in Dyce, on the outskirts of Aberdeen. Historical records show that of cases recorded in Scotland, eighty percent involved women. In Aberdeen, the accused were imprisoned at the East Kirk of St. Nichols (for those that know the city, the church round the corner from M&S on Union Street) or the Tolbooth, as were the trials. Many historians believe that Aberdeen killed more witches than any other city.
By the mid-17th Century most places in Europe had stopped persecuting witches. The last successful prosecution under the Witchcraft Act in Britain was 1944. Sooner after the Act was repealed and witchcraft was no longer considered a crime. But mud sticks.
You Say Witch Like It's A Bad Thing
Samhain. The Season of the Witch. Halloween - is not just pumpkins and Michael Myers. It's a Sabbat, one that celebrates death and renewal. All Hallows Eve is my time to reminisce and reconnect with the past.
That said, I do like a pumpkin. Yes, they are an American tradition, but there is something nostalgic about orange dotted doorsteps with candles burning bright. Plus they are much easier to carve than a neep (Doric for turnip). My folks refused to buy pumpkins, they were considered an indulgence. I had to make do with a neep. But you had to start days before, carving one was akin to chiseling granite. Me and my Granda, his hands near bleeding. He was adept at making them look scary but it wasn't a pumpkin.
We may not have bought pumpkins but we certainly celebrated Halloween in our house. Every year my ma would decorate the house, we'd have a wee party and invite the neighbours kids in to 'dook' for apples. When I moved into my own home, I carried on the tradition. For the past twenty years, I've never missed one. Much to my neighbours bewilderment. But to be honest, here, it's Halloween 365. Couple of weeks back our new postie said "I like your decorations." I replied "thanks, but I haven't started yet."
In the street, I'm known as the "witchy wifie." And in the run up, should I meet any of the local kids coming out of school, they'll ask "you dein the scary hoose again?" I use the same decorations but every year I try to outdo myself by making something new. It's not a success unless I spook a few children.
Different times nowadays, so no kids in the house, but I do try n dress up to answer the door. Usually Maleficent, but I've also been Morticia and Wednesday Adams, even Jack Skellington. Last year, thanks to the virus, sensibly, there was no trick or treating. Tonight, I'm just leaving out bagged sweets, as we are not out of the woods yet.
The youngest and his girlfriend bought their own house this year. Rather apt, as they moved to Cruden Bay, home of Slains Castle and Bram Stoker's Dracula. I was chuffed to find that not only can you see the castle from their house, but that the street is named Stoker Road. I messaged them this morning to see if they wanted to meet for a walk. My heart smiled at his reply "sorry, we've got Alfie's first Halloween party today, got to go dooking for apples."
My eldest has kept the house in the family, and next year I reckon he'll put out a pumpkin but I can't see him decorating. So this Halloween comes with a tinge of sadness knowing it will be my last in this house. But just like the seasons, the cycle of life keeps turning, and it's time for them to make memories of their own.
Where we're going I'll have to give folk a map to find us. Regardless, I'll still decorate come October. I can't not.
For we are the granddaughters of the witches they couldn't burn.
Plus which witch would I be if I didn't.
Blessed Be
Kirsteen