Rotting Fruit

Cherry harvest is coming to an end. Not because the trees have been picked clean. I can’t get up high enough, nor do I have the energy to keep going much longer!! Friends came last night and picked a couple of boxes, and the red ones are beginning to spoil, though the black remain firm.

So what happens now? I imagine the ground will be carpeted by rotting fruit, which might call rodents and other undesirables. I may still have work to do out there, sweeping and putting into the compost heap, or we may find our cherry trees have the pulling power of the Pied Piper of Hamlin.

What is a blessing and sweet to the taste can go bad. What nourishes and delights can turn sour and sickly. God pours out his blessings and gifts on us, which he wants us to use for the good of the Kingdom. The important thing in life is that old saying, carpe diem, because what is wonderful today may be horrible tomorrow.

It’s not always easy to choose how to spend time, which gifts to use when. I had planned to do some writing today, but the forecast is that this good weather is drawing to a close, so I better take my own advice, and get out there and carpe diem. I can write in the rain, but I don’t want to deal with rotting cherries in it.

The Speed of Life

As I de-clutter I find old bits of writing, scribbled or typed during times of turmoil and busyness. Most bring a smile to my face, some a sense of awe that I actually survived those times. They all startle me by reminding me of things I have little or no recollection of. Is my memory that bad, or is there just too much in there to have it readily available?

I wish I’d written more, as it brought a smile and chat to all the family when I shared one yesterday. But there was one plaintive query from the youngest. Didn’t I write anything when he was older, and no longer the annoying two-year-old?

Actually, I thought he was cute. I’m sure at the time I was frustrated as I swept up the sand one more time, but inside, I smiled. He had personality. He was alive. Sure, he was tiring at times, but he was a two-year-old. And now he’s nearly a quarter of a century. (Still cute, in his mother's eyes anyway!)

Where did those years go? 

I hope in living life, rather than in writing about it. Life happens. And it happens at top speed. 

Carpe diem. 

I think I’ll go out and do something. Stop writing. Have a coffee with Don.

Sun in my Face

The weather forecast is for a last blast of heat before the sun slips south. I don’t generally believe the forecast, so headed out on the morning trek suitably attired – eg, t-shirt, warm sweater and windbreaker. 

I stood in the field of weeds, shedding my layers, one by one – well, the top two anyway. And then I just settled, face to the sun, enjoying the massage on my sore sinuses, still trying to recover from a nasty cold. And I thought, sometimes praying is just standing still, breathing, basking in the Son. 

I’ve learned at least one lesson over these 35 years in Scotland. Carpe diem. When the children were small, in the summer holidays, as soon as a day like today unfolded, I dropped all unnecessary plans for the day, packed a picnic lunch, bundled the crew into the car (those were the days before everyone needed his own car seat and belt), dog in the boot, and we’d head for the river – either the Dee, or the Feugh, or maybe Rob Roy’s cavern. I am grateful that I was able to be a stay-at-home mum so that I had the freedom to do that with my kids.

I still seize the day, when gifted one like this morning, but my aims are more mundane and work-related now. I’ll try and replant some of the hundreds of tulip and daffodil bulbs we blithely dug up in early summer as we set out seedlings. 

But I will also stand in the sun and be still. Because in the trees, I can hear the caw of crows that reminds me autumn is waiting in the wings, with its winds and sharp edges.

Autumn Chorus Line

Swallows chatter busily, balanced on the swaying overhead power cable. Some preen and fluff their feathers, and suddenly one lifts off the line, lifting and dropping in a whimsical aerial dance. The rest follow in an unchoreographed overhead ballet, sometimes pausing in a treetop or two, and eventually resettling onto the wire.

Summer is fading into autumn – more like exploding into autumn, really, in a vibrant final display of colour.  I love this time of year, for its oranges and russets, honeys and browns, and for the sense of fulfilment as the farmers harvest the fields and we gather in our tatties and apples. The nip in the air overnight is a harbinger of frosts to come, but as yet there is enough heat in the sun that, if it shows its face, there is power there to burn.

It’s a glorious season. Almost a triumphant season.

But it doesn’t last.

It gets messy, as the trees disrobe and fall colours fade into slimy piles of decaying browns and blacks.  Bonfires raise a stench and a pall of smoke; swallows desert us and follow the sun; geese squawk overhead, keeping their v-shape as they migrate. Winter is on the way.

 I’m talking about more than just the earth’s seasons here.

Carpe diem.