And the Machine Grinds into Motion again.

 And so I sit me down to write. Gosh! It's been ages, hasn't it! So much has happened! This is strange though: Where once a computer keyboard was the landscape of much of my life, now I am very rare visitor to it. When I think of the tens of hours per week I used to sit and tap away, it seems incongruous for it to now be such an unfamiliar activity. I spent this morning directing volunteers in planting a greengage tree and spreading compost on raised beds on the side of damp windswept hill: As far away, perhaps from the artificiality of the plastic office and online world as it is possible to be.

But I have been alarmed of late to note the decline in the availability of words to me. The regular beating-of-the-bounds of my vocabulary allowed a fluency which I have noticed is slipping away. The observational skills I used to spot noteworthy events and behaviours have waned. Life is merely pragmatic these days. Indeed, writing this is actually much harder than I expected because, well, I never write any more. 

And so, here, for my own benefit, is a small foray into the once-familiar but now foreign territory of attempting to be articulate. It's not for you, you understand,. It's for me. I compel nobody to read this and perhaps nobody will. And that is ok. The possibility that someone might helps aspire to clarity and discipline. But really, I just need the exercise if I am to be honest. What do I write about? I don't know. It doesn't matter really. As long as words are chosen, written down and are subsequently coherent, the purpose will have been served. It seems a shame to have the ability to compose a cogent sentence and not to at least try to do so. Previously, in my Old Life it was necessary to communicate clearly in order to earn a crust, but not now. Nobody needs my words now. 

I suppose, in order to regain some kind of verbal fitness, practice must be undertaken. Hence here I am, with nothing of substance to say, other than "I need to say something so here are some words". The house is a tip, the rain is coming through my roof and there are still some big pans which need washing up from yesterday's dinner. But this can all wait. Verbal composition is self-care (though so is cleaning the kitchen so as not to be unhygienic), just like exercise or eating your greens. There are things we must do for our own good. I seem to be discovering this is one of them.

Not only that, it is an enriching exercise to portray the seemingly mundane in  everyday life. One watches more closely and with a different frame of mind if something profound might be described. It makes you look at things in a different way. I envy those people who can look upon an ordinary scene with an artist's eye and capture it in a painting or photograph such that it makes you stop and look deeper at something. Words can do that too.

Therefore, with creaking reluctance, I shift my brain into a mode it had almost forgotten and I force words out of my mind, through these keys and on to a screen. Ye gods! But I am so out of shape! Time to try to put that right.

Soil and Sentient Trees

Here is a fact that astonished me when I heard it: Up to 40% of sugars produced by some trees through photosynthesis is sent to its roots to be exuded to feed soil organisms. Yes, it does all of that work making sugars from carbon dioxide and light just to push it out into the ground. Why do plants go to all this trouble? I shall elaborate.

Lately, I have been a bit bored. I used my intellect to make my living for over three decades and mostly now I do not. I mow lawns, I build raised beds and build wildlife habitats. Hence my intellect languishes largely idling apart from such direction as my idle curiosity bids it to take. And so, I decided to do some online courses to keep myself engaged with the world of thinking and learning, lest I otherwise become slack-jawed and monosyllabic. There are some excellent free online course and I have learned many fascinating facts such as that above. And I have begun to get some sense of how we might, in some small way, make our little patch of the Earth healthier and, anthropocentrically, more productive.

Everything we eat has, in one way or another, its origin in soil. Plants obviously grow in it (though hydroponics can also be a way to raise plants). Animals graze on vegetation which grows from soil and are also fed from other plant products. And of course, we ourselves eat plants grown as crops and some people eat animals fed from plants. Soil is the origin of all of our food, ultimately.

Strange then that soil is given so little thought. Moves are afoot to bring about a realisation of soil's importance and to protect and nurture soils, identifying soil as  a resource which is largely though not completely, finite. Recognition is also growing of the damage caused by common and accepted agricultural practices such as ploughing and digging which persist despite an emerging understanding of their contribution to erosion and degradation of soil structure.

Looking with a little more focus at the dirt beneath our feet, I discover we have been underestimating it for some time. It turns out that soil is a lot more complex than the stuff you tread all over the carpet when you come in from a walk in the countryside. It is not a simple, homogeneous substance that fills in the gaps between rocks or sits passively at the side of the road with grass growing upon it. Certainly, it contains mineral particles (The "parent material") and this is what most people think of when they talk about "dirt". But in addition, soil contains a world of living complexity which is still not fully understood. What is understood however is that it is a community, a living ecosystem of its own and how to nurture, feed and care for it is becoming clearer as research progresses.

So, back to our small but explosive factoid from my opening line. Plants push out sugars into the soil to feed bacteria, fungi and a class of intermediate organisms called "actinomycetes" from which we get many of our antibiotics. These latter seem largely to be similar to bacteria but produce spores and filamentous networks like fungi.

Fungi and bacteria do not photosynthesise and so have limited ability to produce their own food from their surroundings. Certainly they break down wood and other materials for food but a plant offering a shortcut to actual sugars is very welcome to fungi. It is very difficult not to anthropomorphise about this, but essentially fungi undertake trade for these carbon resources. In return via their networks of mycelium they transfer to the plant roots elements such as phosphorus and other substances necessary for plant growth. Indeed so intimate are the relationships with some of these soil organisms that they have interfaces within the cells of plant roots where these exchanges can be easily transacted: A bit like a subcontractor having an office in the building of a major customer. It is estimated that the surface area of mycelial networks on a plant root have seven times the surface area and reach of the roots themselves, extending the plant's reach to gather nutrients massively beyond what the plant itself could manage.

Fungi like carbon. They can't get enough of the stuff and to be provided with it by a plant is a huge ecological boost. Similarly, plants need elements such as nitrogen which certain bacteria like rhizobium, will supply in return for food and a comfortable place to live such as in nodules on the roots of beans or birch trees. 

We have then, networks below the ground where symbiotic relationships flourish to the benefit of all concerned. Millions of years of evolution have ensured this process exists everywhere plants grow. If we let it.

And here is the thing: These wonderful networks of existence and transaction are fragile. And what do we do? We come along with spades or ploughs and we smash them to bits by turning over the soil. This is how most farms work the soil and to be fair, they have reasons for doing it this way which are quite compelling. Vegetable gardeners everywhere know that beans are good for the soil because they add nitrogen. But then Autumn comes and the plot is dug over and all those networks are disrupted and the tiny particles of carbon held in the soil are exposed to oxygen from the atmosphere resulting in the production of carbon dioxide. The carbon could have stayed in the soil, nourished fungi and bacteria and hence our plants, but it is now floating around in the atmosphere warming the place up. How much better to leave them in place for the next crop to take advantage of?

So, five years ago, or thereabouts (although not actually being aware at the time of these actual mechanisms) I ceased digging my vegetable garden. Every year, I just add 3 -4 cm of compost on top and I plant into this. This adds beneficial organisms and, of course, carbon, locking it up safely for a while and feeding the soil organisms that feed my vegetables. Also, this results in the soil having better water retention  and being beautifully crumbly so that what few weeds do germinate are able to be pulled up very easily. Not turning the soil over also has the benefit of not exposing weed seeds so they stay in the soil and rot. My yields are higher and best of all: I don't have to dig! Win-win as they say.

Now, taking this a step further, I looked into the further significance of mycelial networks and discovered something even more profound: Plants communicate!

No really. You read that correctly. An experiment took bean seedlings and stripped them to two roots, placing one root in a test tube of nutrient solution with the single root of a neighbour. The plants were, in effect, "daisy chained" in a line.

A plant nibbled by a grazing animal will produce salicylic acid (a component of aspirin) in response to the damage. It was discovered in the experiment that if the first plant in the chain was damaged deliberately, all the others would produce salicylic acid in response. Obviously some information about threat had been passed down the line.

Even stranger it was discovered that when a pine tree was given carbon dioxide containing a radioactive isotope of carbon, those atoms appeared in seedlings near the "mother" tree. But they only appeared in seedlings who were offspring of the mother. They did not appear in unrelated seedlings of the same species at the same distance. Now I don't know about you, but I find this utterly profound and somewhat disconcerting. Trees exchange information as well as resources along networks of mycelium. Giving one seedling food but not another, even if it is the same species, implies a decision of some kind. To call it "intelligence" might be premature. But is does seem to suggest trees don't just stand there unaware of their surroundings.

What are we to make of this then? Well, firstly, soil is far from inert but is bustling with life, information and trade. mycelial networks are vital to vegetative commerce and healthy crops. Also that plants are not passive but respond almost "intelligently" to their surroundings. I am not sure if this will make me regard my plate of spinach, carrots and chickpeas in any way differently but it is, if you'll excuse my shameless pun, food for thought.

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.

Some Hope and Curmudgeonly Best Wishes.

The inescapable gravity of the concept of New Year is hard to avoid. It pulls all minds toward its imperative to reflection and conjecture in a way that is both predictable and tiresome. So those few words are my only concession to the Turning of The Year. Of course, custom and actual intent on my part bid me to wish you a Happy New Year in 2020 and to venture no further about the global or personal probabilities of that. So, Happy New Year. I hope it is indeed a good one for you.

In the turmoil that is Western Politics, I have been putting my despair aside to focus on the considerable good news for Humanity as a whole. After reading the extremely hopeful "Factfulness" by Dr Hans Rosling, I realise that although the news and individual testimonies do show some awful and undeniable suffering, the human race as a whole is experiencing some serious improvements in standard of living if we look at a global picture.:The rise of vast numbers of people from extreme poverty, the story behind worldwide life-expectancy (which is now a biblical three-score-and-ten years), the world fertility rate (currently at about three children per woman) is slowing dramatically as a result of the incredible drop in infant mortality since 1960. This is all very good news which almost never reaches our minds.

In the book, the lovely Doctor explains a little of why this might be: Negativity bias, the need to sell newspapers (or garner likes), the wish to lead a population by the nose to an expedient but incorrect view of the world for political gain. It's worth a read. And if you don't have time, the transcript is on youtube for you to listen to whilst performing some 9 hour menial task (as is common in my line of work these days). Do it. It will change how you see the world.

In this, I suppose I am exhibiting an uncharacteristic evangelism. But I feel that we should build a world view based upon verifiable facts and data. And these exist if we only care to look. I know the Amazon, Australia and even the Arctic are burning, but without faith in our own abilities to improve things, we really have no hope. And I don't know about you, but I really need some hope right now.

So, whilst I was mowing lawns, building raised beds and pruning apple trees, the year rolled by and suddenly, without noticing, it was December and I hadn't bought any Christmas presents. Perhaps sometimes we need to look up from what we are doing and see that a Bigger Picture (though not a cosmic one, because that will mostly not help on a day to day basis) needs regarding.

The book again: Dr Hans Rosling "Factfulness"

Also look a the Gapminder.org website where you will find information on how to bridge the gap between your likely incorrect assumptions about the state of the world and the facts that can give a more accurate and hopeful perspective.

The View From The Garden

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?