Moving, and Being Moved By Life.

Plus the most soulful music movie you’ll ever watch.

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The last Saturday night in May, and I’m writing in our garden as the light fades, with the embers of an impromptu fire after cutting back overgrowth to let more light in. Which always feels like a metaphor.

Gardening is all metaphor — and I have been losing myself in mine, between real time working and new forays into writings, which is why I haven’t written here for so long.

In my overactive imagination, every ‘weed’ I pull or slug fed to the hens feels like a Nazi act — brutal, far too powerful. And yet there’s also the great mother in the clearing of space for the things you choose: moving things into the best possible position; protecting young promise from undiscerning appetites.

Moving always in your imagination between a future dream of flowers and fruitfulness and this moment now of the body. Which is gently moving — being moved — by an ever evolving co-creativity with nature.

The garden is a very long conversation.

I am completely in love with my garden. So much so that I’m embarrassed I might finish this writing with the only cultural recommendation for you being…