Crying amongst the nettles

Today was a strange day. I woke up and as usual took my tea outside for a wander around the garden and to feed and water the chickens. As I got to the hen house I realised something was wrong, Flora was curled in her favourite corner with her wing wrapped around herself like a matador’s cape. Her eyes were closed and she looked beautiful but she was not moving and the startling realisation that she had died in her sleep hit home. The chickens are re-homed from a local organic egg farm and have enjoyed a happy retirement but they are old ladies and although upsetting, her death was not a huge surprise. I took her to the woods and fought my way through chest high nettles and brambles to lay her at the foot of my favourite oak. Love and thanks were offered for a beautiful life and I wondered home. The events coloured the rest of the day with a pale shade of melancholy.

I decided now would be a good time to clear the overgrown space around the polytunnel. The day flipflopped between bright, hot sunshine and thick grey clouds and I dashed between too hot and too cold as I pulled my jumper on and off in headbanging fashion. Primrose, the remaining hen was constantly by my side, pecking at the back of legs as a constant reminder of her vitality. The brambles, ragwort, thistles, grass and nettles were taller than me in places. I had left this spot for wildlife and it was rich was butterflies and bugs but had taken on jungle-like proportions over the last couple of weeks. On my hands and knees with shears and secateurs at the ready I began to clear the area. It was hard work but also satisfying, it lacked the uniformity and speed of someone who knows what they are doing with a strimmer and had a definite feel of the rough and ready but there was something about being in the greenery which seemed to speak to me. That was until my shears broke and work came to a halt. Primrose continued her solitary pecking and I sat in the ill cut wilderness and cried. It was all there, simultaneously broken and comforted. I had put on my big girl pants to deal with loss of Flora, faced the discomfort of removing her body and laying it to rest away from the house to discourage any foxes. I was overwhelmed by the state of the wilderness in the garden and had been thwarted by my inexperience, my attempt to gain some control. And that was okay too, we are all just running to stand still, cutting back thickets which continue to grow, dealing with loss and trying to be “grown up” about it whilst around us the life fizzes and thunders along. I sat watching the butterflies and bees and the relentless pecking and foot scraping of Primrose and really felt a part of it of it all. Surely that’s what living means, sitting at the edges, accepting the discomfort and the beauty, crying amongst the nettles and relishing it all.