February
Burnout, burrows and new beginnings. February newsletter
The Year of the Snake ended with three deaths. One of our pet rabbits (the doe, the wildest one, with midnight fur and eyes full of stars) died at Christmas. Then went the neighbour’s cat. He was never ours but I loved him dearly, and would have loved him for all of his days.
My gran died a week ago last Sunday, at Imbolc, peacefully in her bed. She was one hundred and three years old. Born in 1922, not long after the Great War, raised beside the River Thames in London, she was among many other things a wonderful gardener. I used to write letters to her about my own garden before her eyesight went. Those letters were probably my first nature poems, and she always wanted to know how my writing was going. I am deeply blessed to have had her company for so long. I cannot imagine being that old.
Winter has been drab and grey and not nearly cold enough. None of the thick, heavy hoar frosts (named from the old English root word hoary, used to describe a grey or white beard) that we had last January, just rain and mud and bleakness in abundance. The river spills into the fields, frequently flooding the potholed road through the village, turning the garden and the back field into swampy bogs. The dreich sets in like fallen leaves into mud. My eyes start to feel like dirty windows, blurry with clouds of static, but outside there is a brightness to the thin February light, and plentiful glimmers in the grey: fuzzy yellow hazel catkins, the blue-green shoots of daffodils, moss and lichen rendered more vibrant by the endless rain. The snowdrops are out under the oak tree, heads bowed in the wind and mizzle, shining like little bells. I took some to my gran before she died.
Apologies for missing my January newsletter, in case anyone noticed. A vicious flu burned through me in late December and for most of January I wasn’t sure if I was burnt out, post viral or just normal for January. I’ve been moving slow, staying home as much as life allows, not yet emerging dishevelled from the winter burrow with dead leaves in my hair and moss growing behind my ears. I have been running on a very low battery, processing grief and carrying the usual load of motherhood in extraordinary times, going between paid work, creative work, tending the hearth and home and caregiving, when really my body wants to crawl into a cave and stay there until spring.
There have also been delicious pockets of rest, solitude, lots of writing, a strangely hopeful feeling about the future and daily walks in all weathers which I cannot do without. We are living in paradox times. In the end maybe all we can do is choose how we live, and perhaps the true invitation of these times is to hold the beauty and the pain, the wonder and the weirdness, to keep dreaming and creating and believing that the future we need also desperately needs us. I suspect that many of us are more adept at this now than we give ourselves credit for. Our dreams and imaginations, our art and active hope are seeds we can plant and water and grow, and we are the seeds and the earth and the water, and the sun will soon be here, turning all the world green. How are you caring for your heart in these wild, changing times?
Writing-wise I have not been sharing much new work online recently, and doing some quiet, belowground winter work instead. I am hesitant (and more than a touch superstitious) about shedding too much light on something while it is still forming, at the same time I worry that I stray too far into undersharing or secretiveness, based on my natural fears around being visible and vulnerable. But I am committed to this path, so I will share that I have been deep in the editing mire, trying to let go of perfection, enjoying the process even (perhaps especially) if no one can see, even if I am wracked with self doubt and have no idea if any of it will ever see the light of day. I’m pretty sure this is all part of the process! More to come on this soon.
Perhaps because most of my creative juice has been going into a long project, I have had to withdraw a little bit from the online world lately. I find it difficult to be outward facing all the time. I also think a lot of us are experiencing a more general internet fatigue, becoming more discerning about what and how much we consume and share of ourselves online, and I don’t think that’s a bad thing. There is no doubt, though, that Substack has made me a better writer. It feels like a good place to be. I am grateful for this space and the people in it, who always inspire me with their generosity of spirit, heartfelt creative offerings and appreciation for the beauty in life. So, thank you so much for spending a few minutes of your precious time here with me. Welcome to the Year of the Fire Horse! Here’s to new beginnings. Let’s go,
love Caroline x
In loving memory of Joy Dowell, née Joyce Emily Eedle.
16th June 1922 - 1st February 2026.
Rest now and travel well. I love you🤍
May the road rise to meet you,
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
The rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of his hand.
May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the warm rays of sun fall upon your home,
And may the land of a friend always be near.
May green be the grass you walk on,
May blue be the skies above you,
May pure be the joys that surround you,
May true be the hearts that love you.
- Old Irish Blessing
Nature teaches us patience, and emerging when the time is right. Trust her expertise. Condolences to you and your family, and best wishes for new projects when they are ready to come to the light!
Thank you for summoning the energy to write from a deep place. Grief is so hard to express, but your description of nature in February felt like a metaphor for it.