It isn't joy, per se when I read your words, but a form of settlement. A resting in a single space for a moment, squatted on the ground, eyes peering over the land. I see the hedgerows, the floating chimneys with their steeples of smoke, trucks on roads winding in the distance. I see, too, what was once a quieter landscape, selective cutting of trees, women carrying jugs of milk and a basket of eggs. I can count all of these things as they merge within a singular frame, boundaries of generations confined within one viewscape. The passing of time, the remembered. The forgotten. The future smudges on the sides, or maybe the future the erasing of a hedgerow.
I am honored that my essay gave you fodder for thought. That it brought you a pause, ever as uncomfortable as it may be. I see the fewer sparrows. I have lost count to the inequities - of human, of nature. Maybe that is why we do this, this writing, to be wide open to the learning what is beyond just ourselves. Your research reminds me to always look farther in the distance, to offer history, to not forget because one day our species will want to remember.
Oh thank you so much, Stacy. Your words always, always give me much to think about, I love to read about your landscape, of course so different from mine but similar concerns and a great love.
I appreciate all the research you've done in order to put together a balanced and interesting essay. Thank you. As always, your words are a pleasure to read, Bee. I very much enjoyed the Firewood poem, new to me, and I can see how it would be used as a teaching aid.
I also have a log-burning stove. There isn't much choice for heating and hot water other than to use electricity or oil here in the countryside. I'm looking to replace the oil-fired boiler with solar power which will leave me using clean energy and burning logs only when the cold weather kicks in - which it will do with force here in the Scottish Borders!
We lived over a decade 100% off grid - eight solar panels - and I loved it. Prefer it. Used candles in the evening to add extra light in the winter. Sure, we used our headlamps a bit more to read at night but seeing the dark sky every night was a definite screen to look at instead.
I would love to live off grid in a woodland, somewhere. We’ve even thought about buying a small woodland and restoring it ( woodland restoration, when we’ve been fortunate enough to land those projects, we both love.) Rules and regs here make it very difficult to live year-round in a woodland, though, unless you’re wealthy and can get planning permission to build, say, an eco house. Right now, we stay some of the summer in Kip, our beloved canvas bell tent, when we go home, down South. We stay in a meadow alongside a couple of yurts, ancient woodland all around us. I can feel my entire being heal.
Solar on our old cottage would’ve been problematic for a heap of reasons; plus we couldn’t pay for it in instalments. Things are changing but not quick enough.
This sounds idyllic, Stacy. I'll find the solar power much reduced in the winter but I'll have battery storage so I hope I'll not have to draw from the grid too much.
We share almost the same weather, Yasmin. You'll likely have more snow in the Borders as we're too near the coast for it to settle. It's fun when it does but my goodness, everything shuts down, schools, etc. Ha!
I wish you the very best with solar, it's the right choice given the lack of options.
We're fairly close to the coast as well so it will be interesting to see a year through. I'm told by neighbours that we must have brought the sunshine up from down south because they've never before had such a good spring and early summer!
Wonderful essay Bee! The firewood poem I’d not heard before but love rural knowledge made memorable in this way. When you do leave Cumbria, I get the sense you will be well remembered by all the seeds you have planted and the web of relations you engage deeply with.
Crikey, for years I didn’t know who wrote that poem, it was in our house when I was growing up and I think it said ‘Anon.’ These days it’s attributed to Celia Congreve, but of course she must’ve absorbed local knowledge and it fascinates me. Some weeks ago I think I left a comment on your ash tree with a line from this poem (I might’ve replaced the word ‘king’ with ‘queen.’ :) )
Leaving here will be… tearful. But exciting. A new adventure. And we’ll be going home, what does it mean to be homesick for a place one left years earlier? I miss that coastline so. The Cumbrian archive, though, will be a lifetime’s work I’m sure, and will be joined by a Cornish one. I want to explore, the connection between the old Cornish language (Kernewek) and the old Cumbrian language, Cumbric. What a challenge!
Bee, your soothing voice lends an air of wonder and mystery to the surroundings you describe, surroundings so very different from those near my home in suburban Sacramento. Having said that, I know that the commonalities between your rural environment and mine are many. Here,too, we face encroachment upon wild lands and energy use dilemmas. Here, too, we notice diminished numbers of certain species. When I first began walking along our American River, I saw coyotes and rabbits on a regular basis. It doesn't take a rocket scientist or a biologist to understand what happens when the rabbits decline in number. Now, people whine about their cats getting attacked (or worse) by the few coyotes who remain. Thank you so much for your thoughtful, persuasive essay.
Thank you, Julie. Your encouragement means the world. We have had a difficult morning here, a family crisis, and I feel sad … but shored-up by the community we’re making on here.
I guess to read and write of our experiences and thus get to know each other’s places a little is why we’re here on this journey together. Thank you.
I’m glad we’re on this journey together, Bee. So sorry to hear of the struggles you and your family are going through. Community is everything, and you’re not alone, friend.
It isn't joy, per se when I read your words, but a form of settlement. A resting in a single space for a moment, squatted on the ground, eyes peering over the land. I see the hedgerows, the floating chimneys with their steeples of smoke, trucks on roads winding in the distance. I see, too, what was once a quieter landscape, selective cutting of trees, women carrying jugs of milk and a basket of eggs. I can count all of these things as they merge within a singular frame, boundaries of generations confined within one viewscape. The passing of time, the remembered. The forgotten. The future smudges on the sides, or maybe the future the erasing of a hedgerow.
I am honored that my essay gave you fodder for thought. That it brought you a pause, ever as uncomfortable as it may be. I see the fewer sparrows. I have lost count to the inequities - of human, of nature. Maybe that is why we do this, this writing, to be wide open to the learning what is beyond just ourselves. Your research reminds me to always look farther in the distance, to offer history, to not forget because one day our species will want to remember.
Oh thank you so much, Stacy. Your words always, always give me much to think about, I love to read about your landscape, of course so different from mine but similar concerns and a great love.
I appreciate all the research you've done in order to put together a balanced and interesting essay. Thank you. As always, your words are a pleasure to read, Bee. I very much enjoyed the Firewood poem, new to me, and I can see how it would be used as a teaching aid.
I also have a log-burning stove. There isn't much choice for heating and hot water other than to use electricity or oil here in the countryside. I'm looking to replace the oil-fired boiler with solar power which will leave me using clean energy and burning logs only when the cold weather kicks in - which it will do with force here in the Scottish Borders!
We lived over a decade 100% off grid - eight solar panels - and I loved it. Prefer it. Used candles in the evening to add extra light in the winter. Sure, we used our headlamps a bit more to read at night but seeing the dark sky every night was a definite screen to look at instead.
I would love to live off grid in a woodland, somewhere. We’ve even thought about buying a small woodland and restoring it ( woodland restoration, when we’ve been fortunate enough to land those projects, we both love.) Rules and regs here make it very difficult to live year-round in a woodland, though, unless you’re wealthy and can get planning permission to build, say, an eco house. Right now, we stay some of the summer in Kip, our beloved canvas bell tent, when we go home, down South. We stay in a meadow alongside a couple of yurts, ancient woodland all around us. I can feel my entire being heal.
Solar on our old cottage would’ve been problematic for a heap of reasons; plus we couldn’t pay for it in instalments. Things are changing but not quick enough.
This sounds idyllic, Stacy. I'll find the solar power much reduced in the winter but I'll have battery storage so I hope I'll not have to draw from the grid too much.
We share almost the same weather, Yasmin. You'll likely have more snow in the Borders as we're too near the coast for it to settle. It's fun when it does but my goodness, everything shuts down, schools, etc. Ha!
I wish you the very best with solar, it's the right choice given the lack of options.
Thank you.
We're fairly close to the coast as well so it will be interesting to see a year through. I'm told by neighbours that we must have brought the sunshine up from down south because they've never before had such a good spring and early summer!
Wonderful essay Bee! The firewood poem I’d not heard before but love rural knowledge made memorable in this way. When you do leave Cumbria, I get the sense you will be well remembered by all the seeds you have planted and the web of relations you engage deeply with.
Thank you, Julia.
Crikey, for years I didn’t know who wrote that poem, it was in our house when I was growing up and I think it said ‘Anon.’ These days it’s attributed to Celia Congreve, but of course she must’ve absorbed local knowledge and it fascinates me. Some weeks ago I think I left a comment on your ash tree with a line from this poem (I might’ve replaced the word ‘king’ with ‘queen.’ :) )
Leaving here will be… tearful. But exciting. A new adventure. And we’ll be going home, what does it mean to be homesick for a place one left years earlier? I miss that coastline so. The Cumbrian archive, though, will be a lifetime’s work I’m sure, and will be joined by a Cornish one. I want to explore, the connection between the old Cornish language (Kernewek) and the old Cumbrian language, Cumbric. What a challenge!
Bee, your soothing voice lends an air of wonder and mystery to the surroundings you describe, surroundings so very different from those near my home in suburban Sacramento. Having said that, I know that the commonalities between your rural environment and mine are many. Here,too, we face encroachment upon wild lands and energy use dilemmas. Here, too, we notice diminished numbers of certain species. When I first began walking along our American River, I saw coyotes and rabbits on a regular basis. It doesn't take a rocket scientist or a biologist to understand what happens when the rabbits decline in number. Now, people whine about their cats getting attacked (or worse) by the few coyotes who remain. Thank you so much for your thoughtful, persuasive essay.
Thank you, Julie. Your encouragement means the world. We have had a difficult morning here, a family crisis, and I feel sad … but shored-up by the community we’re making on here.
I guess to read and write of our experiences and thus get to know each other’s places a little is why we’re here on this journey together. Thank you.
I’m glad we’re on this journey together, Bee. So sorry to hear of the struggles you and your family are going through. Community is everything, and you’re not alone, friend.
Community is everything. Thanks, Julie.