Unearthing and Emerging

 Today, I was out in the garden first thing to continue ‘Project - The Big Post-Winter Tidy Up’. I weeded, and pruned, and made a big pile of ‘stuff’ on the side of our driveway ready to go into a skip to be taken away. The ‘stuff’ consists of woody material - branches, bits of old treehouse, other bits of tree that aren’t branches, bits of ancient timber and plywood, generally stuff that once served a purpose but is now no longer useful. The problem is, you see, is that I’m VERY aware that the menfolk on both my mother’s and my father’s side of the family are terrible hoarders in the manner of ‘I’ll hang onto that because it might be useful one day.’ Of course, ‘one day’ never comes and the stuff piles up and then one day you realise your lovely outside space looks like a dystopian war zone. 

It is a mild concern that this hoarding habit might, just might be genetic. It has certainly emerged in the next generation of men on both sides of the family. Of course, the biggest thing I have in my favour is that I am a woman and my natural disposition is to declutter. Also, I have invested a lot of time and effort into my garden and I do not want it to end up looking messy/shabby/derelict/ like the family farms I knew growing up.

Whilst I was out working on the garden, I did a lot of thinking. This happens when you are a gardener. Gardening gives you head-space to think about all sorts of things. 

‘Out into the garden I go, to lose my mind and find my hoe,’ is a saying NEVER used in a philosophical way because I have, quite literally, just made it up. But it illustrates the gist. Sort of. When you’re physically occupied with weeding, hoeing, digging, pruning, sowing, planting, turning the compost heap, you give your mind freedom to roam, to wander off by itself, to ruminate on problems, to create, to mourn, to ‘what if’, to challenge and oh, all sorts of other brain stuff. 

And what I was thinking about was this: ‘What made me happy as a child? What brought me joy?’

I have this theory, you see, that when we are very young children we remember stuff from our previous lives, stuff that has imprinted on our genetic memories, which includes things we were good at, things we enjoyed, things that brought us joy. The veil between lives is very thin when we are very young, but it thickens as we age and the memories fade.

Yet we carry those joys and talents with us from life to life because they are imprinted in our souls. We continue to build on them, improving and developing them. Of course, as we grow older, we are influenced by the people around us. In order to fit in with the families we were born into, we learn habits like people-pleasing, or being a fixer, or being seen and not heard, thereby suppressing what WE love and enjoy because we want to be liked or feel approval, because life is all about survival and if you don’t fit in and toe the family line, then life can be a bit trickier. And that’s when what we enjoyed as very young children becomes muffled or buried, and sparks of joy are dimmed, or extinguished completely. 

I was trying to remember then, what were my heart’s delights when I was a very young child? What had I brought from past lives into this life? Writing, of course. I remember doing pretend writing before I could write properly, just to mimic what looked like a very absorbing activity. Of course, once I started to write properly, there was no stopping me. Reading - probably why I am short-sighted. Being out in the countryside. Collecting flowers. Growing things. Studying and learning, but only subjects I was REALLY interested in. (I had a moment, at this point, where I felt annoyed at all the time that was wasted being made to learn things I had no interest in like Maths and Physics and German and Geography. And thereby lies the problem with mainstream education. If I’d had my way I’d have focused on English, History, Drama, Arts and Crafts, Biology, Botany and playing the piano. Ah well…)

I loved making little dens and camps. There was a dilapidated old caravan on my paternal grandparents’ farm (see - hoarding…🙄) which I pretended was my own little house. I made sets of curtains from dock leaves and cleaned it as best I could. I loved little sewing and weaving projects but because we didn’t have a lot of spare money when I was a child I often had to improvise with materials so the projects often didn’t look like the finished products in the instruction books I used. But I tried because I loved the process. 

I liked looking for treasure: clay pipes, old coins, pretty bits of pottery, unusual stones. Butterflies. Singing when no one else was around. Ditto dancing. Ditto making up tunes on my mini Bontempi organ. I very much enjoyed being on my own which was difficult when you had a sibling only a year younger than yourself and were constantly being instructed to ‘take your brother with you’ when you tried to go anywhere. 

What else? Making mosaics. Making collages. Pretending I was an Olympic show jumper or an Olympic ice skater. Feathers. Shells. Miniature worlds. 

It feels important now, for me to pick up some of those lost things again. Some have, luckily, persisted through my life but they need more attention now…proper attention, like the attention I gave them as a child. Do you understand? 

I’ve waffled on a bit, but it’s been a good day today.