The Benefits of communal Endeavour

A while ago, a friend of mine was complaining about having to attend 10 p.m. conference calls from home and how disruptive this was to family life. I commiserated. This kind of commitment is tiresome and intrusive, blurring the boundaries between work and home. He asked what I would be doing the next day (since my work is quite varied these days). I replied that I was teaching a group of volunteers to make houses for solitary bees. I think I saw a twinge of envy flash momentarily across his face.

It was, I suppose, an unexpected response. It seems somehow unreasonable for "work" to consist of such activities. I am not sure why. perhaps the idea just seems too much fun to fit in with out protestant work ethic.

This is a project I was asked to lead for a local not-for-profit organisation. An allotment site needed some development in order to make a more inclusive community space to be enjoyed by local residents. The intention was to provide a focus for communal working-together and increase accessibility to gardening and the Great Outdoors for those who might otherwise find it a challenge.

The site was partly already developed into traditional allotment plots but other areas were extremely overgrown and in need of taking in hand. So, for over a year now I have been turning up with my tools and enthusiasm every Wednesday morning to greet my slowly growing band of volunteers. In that time, we have built raised beds to enable those with mobility issues to garden without having to perform the arduous tasks of ground clearance and digging. We have installed a large communal shed and best of all, cleared a large patch about the size of two tennis courts which was under two metres of brambles where we built a beautiful wildlife pond. 

March 2020

September 2020: We built this!

I confess to having a soft spot for ponds. I have installed several this year for various clients. each one soon becomes a world in its own right. Wildlife discovers a new and unoccupied place to live and moves in very quickly. It becomes a habitat within days with all the attendant life-and-death struggles an aquatic life entails. A pond brings an irreplaceable dimension to an outdoor space where birds and small mammals can drink, snakes can hunt and insects can spend important periods of their lifecycle. I have had one in each of my gardens over the years. But more on ponds another time. I could write on pond for hours and this is but one aspect of this wonderful project.

Indeed, we did make bee hotels the next morning. I had some lengths of seasoned cherry branches which I tasked a couple of volunteers to cut into short logs. Into each log I had others drill 8mm holes about 80mm deep. Then we attached hooks to hang them on south facing walls and tree trunks. We were all very pleased with ourselves, especially when only a day later two holes had residents as could be seen by the plugs of cut-up beech leaf stuffed into their entrances.

It was an incredibly satisfying session. Several people learned to use power tools for the first time. Initially they were cautious and a little intimidated. But the look of delight and empowerment when it was discovered that one could, at the press of a trigger, drill a hole in a piece of wood was a joy to behold. Suddenly a single tool opens up a world of possibilities and opportunities for construction and creativity!

It is difficult to to realise that something one does almost every day and takes for granted as a standard technique of household maintenance is unknown to others who you consider lead a similar life to yourself. Indeed, perhaps I need to be open to the idea that there are tools I myself have yet to discover which may bring equally profound revelations for me. The thought is pleasing and not a little exciting actually.

And so, that day, my morning's work, "playing" as it seemed, provided leaf-cutter and mason bees with a home in which to lay their eggs and raise their offspring. It provided new experiences and education in tool use to those who had never encountered it before. And it provided, in of course a socially distanced way, somewhere for people who might otherwise see few other individuals over the course of the week to meet and spend time in this beautiful place, enjoying the presence of nature, the  joy of making things and the companionship of shared endeavour.

And perhaps now I understand that flash of envy: Whilst it might not seem economically or professionally significant, none of these things is something you get on a 10 p.m. conference call.

Weeding the Path to Enlightenment

I didn't go to work today. It was too hot. And i was too tired. Manual work is culturally regarded as "good for the soul" and were I to believe in such a concept, I might find it so. But it is tiring for the body. MY step count shows as approaching or exceeding 20000 steps a day fairly consistently, most of this carrying or pushing some article of garden machinery. As a job, it is very good at finding out those injuries you thought had healed twenty years ago or more - in my case a torn rotator cuff ligament that really does not like me cutting hedges.
And so, it was a sunny day and the man was due to come to sort out the misbehaving internet so I decided I could afford not to do any work today. Well, the internet didn't really get fixed, but I did mend my puncture and go out on my mountain bike in some local woods which was glorious.

Thought must be given to the problem however: Injury. When we are young, we do stupid, crazy, catastrophic things, fully believing that any damage will be temporary and will heal in a given amount of time allowing us to carry on with our lives and activities. Well, it isn't so. That broken wrist from 1994, that sprained ankle that beset you in 1989, they caused you grief for some months certainly, but you had faith that in a while, an unspecified but finite amount of time, you would be up and running again and it would all be a comedic episode to refer to when anecdotes were being exchanged over future beer or coffee. And it seemed to be the case. Bodies heal, don't they?
One day, twenty or thirty years later, you reach for the salt, not a risky undertaking in itself, and a sudden twinge in your should makes you wince, reminding you of a long-forgotten pain which you thought you had seen the last of. The next morning, you can't put your socks on. In the shower, washing your hair requires your "good" hand to help lift the other unwilling hand to your head in order to get a good later and not have half a head of clean hair like some 1970s shampoo advert.
And so it goes. Weeks later, it still hurts and your own mortality and fragility are brought into sharp focus: Insults to your body accumulate. The body does not forget.
Oh, I am sure that I will find a way to manage to do my job with a complaining shoulder joint. But it sets a time limit to the job. This chapter in the strange and varied course of my life will by necessity be short lived.
Well, that's ok. Whilst there might be a perceived dignity in honest physical toil, it is pretty dull. In Siddartha, by Herman Hess, the rich Brahmin merchant gives up his fortune to become an ascetic. Ultimately, he becomes a ferryman and lives a simple life of contemplation, listening to the opinions of the river day in day out. And I am sure this is all very spiritual but after a while surely didn't he just get bored? Of course, he is a fictional character and as such has few limits on the credibility of his responses. He could as the narrative unfolds transcend to Nirvana if the author wished it so. I cannot. The only author in this story is me and the only character I have any control over is myself. I suspect spiritual transcendence will not result from weeding.

Weeding is tiresome. I do an awful lot of weeding. Other people say "I like weeding. It is satisfying. It lets me go into a flow." That may well be, but my goodness does it lack an intellectual dimension! How does one take a brain which enjoys an active life of the mind and expect it to remain happy with tedious exertion and without intellectual stimulus?

Of course, there are certainly simple pleasures and small instances of beauty; a bee entering a foxglove, a patch of cleared ground, ants busily carrying disproportionately huge loads. But after a while even these cease to be very interesting. There are only so many ants you can watch before you have seen most of what ants are likely to do.Plus insects bite me a lot. But I digress.
So yes, this cannot be more than an interlude, a pause for reflection, a change of perspective. A research project perhaps.
But what then? As Zen calmness descends from the repetitive toil and the mind falls quiet like a prairie with tufts of rustling grass but no other sound, how does one not turn into something akin to the vegetables one cultivates? Serenity is all very well, but eventually it becomes stultifying to the point you forget how to talk to people.
I plan on continuing to work as a gardener for a year. After that, I may continue do some of my more interesting jobs and visit those clients who I have grown fond of, but effectively, I shall retire. My impecunious state will not be quite so acute after that as certain humble plans will come to fruition. So, I shall regard this few years as my own ascetic phase and move on with such enlightenment as I can interpret and post-rationalise.
In the meantime, I must endeavour to find the time (not easy at this time of rampant Spring growth) to tap out these small missives in an attempt to remind myself that once I had an extensive vocabulary, even if it rarely gets used these days, and an intellect which used to run fast and effortlessly over vast landscapes of the mind, surprising myself and occasionally others. I suppose it is still there to be uncovered? Do such faculties wither and atrophy beyond recovery? I suppose I shall either be delighted or disappointed.
But it would appear that the nobility of working with the soil is not as healthy for the mind as it is for the plants. And so some extra fertiliser and trace nutrients are required if my own growth is to match that of my herbaceous perennials.

Corvid 20

Sitting here in the summerhouse, contemplating how the rain is getting in, I am playing a soundtrack of forest sounds over two bluetooth speakers. Combined with the sounds from the garden, it is impossible to distinguish which birdsong is coming from the trees and which is digitally propagated. Except the recording seems to offer no goldfinches with their twittering cheerfulness. I know that to be actually present. It has been glorious weather for a few weeks of beautiful Spring, until a couple of days ago when the much-needed rain appeared. The water butts, all daisy-chained with blue plastic pipe, filled up overnight from their state of dusty emptiness and the bark paths in the veg garden now squelch with every footstep. I can almost hear the broccoli growing so fecund is the season.

So, I sit down to write and the rain stops. The milky polycarbonate windows (the frames are too flimsy for glass) allow in the newly-reappearing sun and the temperature starts to rise. I insulated the walls quite well so quite soon it will be unbearably warm in here. But for now it is merely pleasant. I feel it is a good place to sit and write as the the birds both real and digital chirrup away. I am hiding in here because the house, in this lockdown, is occupied to capacity and I need the peace and quiet this luxury affords. I acknowledge how lucky I am to have a garden, let alone this (rather shoddy because of budget) summerhouse and that others are suffering intense enforced proximity in strict confinement with no such escape possible. But I am lucky and I am here.
I have no idea what I will write and no burning topics press themselves forward demanding expression. But I am compelled to write because I feel I am losing my ability to express myself and perhaps like the control of physical musculature, the ability can be strengthened by practice. My arms and back are strong from working as a gardener but a commensurate lack of use of my mental faculties causes me concern that some ability might be diminishing. Perhaps some regular writing might help avert this perceived decline. Here's hoping.

I have just been watching a crow. on the lawn, pecking about haphazardly for  birdseed spilt from the feeders.  He has what looks like a club foot and walks with an awkward gait clumsily hobbling on the back of it. We know this crow  well and call him Charlie (I think he is actually a rook, but I shall refer to him as a crow because it feels more familiar). I have no idea if his disfigurement was congenital, as, I think is talopes, in humans, or whether it was as a result of some kind of accident early on in his life. It does, however, cause him to appear distinguishable and easier to find affection for. To see his struggles on the bird feeder, which all the other crows and jackdaws ravage with ferocity when humans are not obviously present, does engender pity. He can't hang on and peck and hence loses out. So, I try to make sure that when titbits are to be put out for the birds, he gets a generous share.

Charlie Clubfoot is our affectionate moniker for him and I hope one day to train him to recognise that when I shout "Charlie!" food is subsequently forthcoming. I know this can happen because my father used to have a Charlie at the rubbish tip where he worked who would come to his name and by way of reward receive a piece of cheese (from the rubbish pile. Crows are not choosy). Operant conditioning is usually easy with crows. We know corvids to be unusually clever amongst birds. They have a large social aspect to their lives which tends to require complexity of cognition because dealing with other individuals is complex and necessitates intelligence.
Our Charlie is not so bright. He still hasn't realised that he gets special treatment. I chase off all the other crows, the number of which has been increasing in recent years, but not him. Charlie has been visiting, as far as I can recall, since we moved in. That was nearly four years ago. Crows can live as long as twenty years if circumstances are favourable.  That Charlie, being disabled and shunned in polite crow society should still be around and healthy after at least four years is a testament to his tenacity and cunning. I am sure a club foot, withered and useless for perching or grasping, must be a serious impediment, but I was pleased to see last year that he had appeared with a female and a youngster and appeared to be showing what I presume to be his offspring, how to forage. Baby crows are curious looking; Cute in an avian kind of way, as if they are wearing a fuzzy grey balaclava. It's nice to know he found a mate and had a family. It feels like a kind of happy ending occurred at some point in his life. And Charlie Junior is able bodied and so doesn't have to hobble about on the lawn in an asymmetric fashion.

In the natural world any disadvantage usually weeds out individuals from the gene pool. It pleases me to see Charlie and his family prosper. I know all corvids can be, as we deem it, cruel: Most omnivorous or carnivorous animals will eat pretty much any creature smaller than themselves and songbird fledglings probably form at least a part of a crows diet at certain times of the year. Hence I am not sentimental about Charlie's lifestyle. But he is a character in the garden amongst so many other wonderful but hard-to-identify individuals and I would miss him were he to disappear. I am under no illusion that he is as opportunistic and voracious as his comrades. But I like to think he is a bit special.

As an aside, crows, jackdaws, rooks and ravens (which we also have around here but which are very shy) are able to see in the ultraviolet so individuals indistinguishable to us are probably vividly and characteristically marked in this spectrum, possibly striped or patchy. But to us, they all look black, occasionally with grey bits. Charlie doesn't appear to be very popular with his kin. They seem to shun him. But their uniformity provides no distinction whereas Charlie's poorly foot is very distinguishable and so, in a perverse way, to his advantage. Sometimes, it seems, it pays to be different.