I ought to be working. But it's raining again. I spent a horrible wet day on Friday building a fence for a lovely lady whose gratitude shames me because, well, I feel my work was not as good as it could have been. I mismeasured, or misremembered the length and as a result, no standard panels would fit meaning I had to build them from scratch using feather-edged boards. It's an ok job, but it could have been better. And I still have one more panel to build to fill in the odd-sized gap remaining. It wasn't satisfying. I am better at plants.
I should be making that last panel. But it's raining. Again. I can't use the necessary power tools outside in the rain so that is out of the question. But I could be building the panel in the workshop. Instead, I am here, writing on the computer in the warm and the dry because, today, somehow, I needed to.
Leaving aside the stark and surreal contrast between this life and the other one I wrote about for years - the one where I traveled on aeroplanes, stayed in hotels, had meetings in cities far away and had a salary, this is a disheartening day. The East Wind blows rain-laden clouds of such leaden grey intensity that the atmosphere underneath feels tangibly compressed by their weight. In the workshop, I wouldn't see this. It would be out of sight and out of mind. So why am I procrastinating?
Well, partly, I feel the need to write something, to exercise this vocabulary that so rarely is given free rein in my new life. There are words in here which I have not recollected for months. Perhaps this beating of paths through the encroaching mental undergrowth might maintain some semblance of accessibility to the carefully collected lexicon. So, here I am, writing. I can still do it, it seems. At least, after a fashion.
And so, some ideas that accumulate over the days and weeks of manual labour remain to be examined. Some evaporate before they can be acknowledged - a most frustrating phenomenon. Others lie there of sufficient weight and significance as to not be swept away by the torrent of distraction and chaos of everyday thought.
Most prominently one thought dominated this past week: I am struck by the dominant demographic of my clients. This can be explained most demonstrably by the phrase I hear most often: "Sorry it's a mess but my late husband was the gardener..." trailing off and accompanied by a wistful downward glance. It breaks my heart every time; The stoic acceptance of loss and the determination to keep living nonetheless. The full social calendars I observe hanging on kitchen walls demonstrate the almost convincing efficacy of inclusion and distraction.
I knock on the door and confess my forgetfulness: "I don't suppose you have a hammer I could borrow. I seem to have forgotten mine today". I am directed to a shed where neatly laid out hooks hold cherished tools, unused for years. I take down the hammer, respectfully. I think about whose hand last wielded it and what expectations were in the mind of the wielder. Of course I cannot no so imagination and speculation are all that can be brought to bear. And I put it back carefully in its allotted place once I have finished with it, with a nod to its deceased owner to show my gratitude. It is humbling and makes me want to go home and declutter to spare the pain and effort of my family when I am gone. Only, of course, I still use my tools so I probably won't.
The other phrase I hear, which is much more heartening, is a sincere "Oh! But that looks lovely!"; A matted forest of brambles and leylandii hacked back, paths and borders revealed, cleverly devised structure now once again evident. I see the happiness in the eyes and the genuine smile at a garden restored and allow myself some satisfaction.
This is something my old job never really gave me. There was never personal gratitude for anything I did, at least not in this immediate way. It feels like it makes a difference to individuals in the way selling storage subsystems to large computer companies did not. Nobody ever viewed my work and was over the moon as a result.
It may feel like gardening is a slow route to poverty but it has it's other rewards. Of course they won't pay the mortgage, but it's healthy. There is the exposure to daylight and fresh air. There is the exercise: I can view my job as being paid to do what others have expensive gym memberships for (and it is astonishingly efficacious in this respect!) And I don't have to surrender. There is no reason to accept any subordinate position just because someone has employed you to weed their borders or cut their hedge. Indeed, only one client has attempted that and was gently reminded that respect is due to everyone, regardless of their profession. Being articulate is a wonderful and deeply satisfying facility to adjust the perception of others, especially when they have grievously underestimated one's intelligence.
I know it makes my knees hurt and this affects my dancing which is sacrosanct, but I think I shall carry on with it for a while. I can afford to, if I continue to be frugal. Gardens are beautiful places, even in November in the rain. And I have no Idiot Manager in Houston berating me for not completing some online course on diversity or pestering me for fabricated yearly targets. This has to be better, poorly paid or not, doesn't it? Better for the body, the mind and the soul I am unable to believe in? Yes, I think so.
And as for intellectual challenge, well, here I am, aren't I?
Philosophical observations from wandering about noticing things.
