Honesty

& bluebells & cowslips, etc

The last day of April.

Long my hardest month due to very difficult experiences, now reshaped completely by good things, so many good things; things for which I am well glad.

Things that include—the making, three years ago, of a garden—my very first one; the making of a beautiful, joyful baby—my very first one; the making of peace with past experiences that held very little to do with growth. April looks very different for me now, and I am very grateful. May looks very busy this year , as it did last year too. New energy ; new colours; new experiences; new growth.

Yesterday my lover hung cornflower blue ribbons over trees planted by someone else into the dark, soft earth— to celebrate our son turning two. The cuckoo called, the wren flew beside a small blue butterfly; the world shifted a little closer towards the summer solstice, and I leaned back more fully into this new role of mother to the most wondrous creature I have ever known. Something about him being earth side two whole years feels weighty but also leaves me feeling weightless, all at once. I made a cake and made beeswax candles for it. The most simple, ordinary ending of April but it all feels so meaningful; so ceremonial. The marking of these moments changes us.

This week we found cowslips —Bainne bó bleachtáin—in our rented garden and my heart was glad. I’ve always loved wild flowers but during the lockdowns I really started to record those I encountered and it made such a difference to the way I interacted with the landscape. I’ve been using this beautiful book to keep myself right…

I read a little of the folklore around cowslips, and discovered an old tale on Brigid’s Garden’s site:

‘Another name for the Cowslip is “Herb Peter” or the “Key Flower” and its true – it does resemble a bunch of keys. The story goes that St. Peter, in charge of the keys of the kingdom of Heaven, heard a rumour that people were using the back door in order not to be judged at the gates. In anger, he dropped the keys when he heard this. They fell to earth and there grew these glorious flowers. This is the Christian version but before that it was linked with Norse Goddess Freya.’

It made me think of the fact that we have no keys for our new home because it is totally open to the elements just now. This, in turn made me think of our old garden, and how we had no boundaries—inspired, of course, by Derek Jarman. I thought of what if means to be judged, to be fearful of the response one’s actions may invoke in someone. I thought, of course, of the act of writing. Of memoir in particular, of what it means to place our lives experience down on paper and invite others to read them. With my first book I did not feel strong enough to stand at the front door; not that I felt I’d done anything wrong, rather that I had no right to be at any door at all. This time round everything feels different. I feel so ready to stand at any door and hear whatever it is that might be shared with me as I stand there. I cannot wait to stand side by side with this book and hear what the world wants to say in reply. Is it because it’s book two? Is it the topic? Where I am in my life? I’m not really sure is the answer. But what I will say is I am humbled and blown away by the response this book has received so far and that has meant more to me than I could ever say.

We spent this morning in the woods with the fairies, the bluebells and a single jay. I have never seen so much blue in one place, I am sure of it. The Woodland Trust tells me

‘In the language of flowers, the bluebell is a symbol of humility, constancy, gratitude and everlasting love. It is said that if you turn a bluebell flower inside-out without tearing it, you will win the one you love, and if you wear a wreath of bluebells you will only be able to speak the truth.’

I think back to making May garlands a few days ago with the toddlers at the community garden—bluebells crowning all of our heads—and how that I gave my first interview for Cacophony Of Bone that same afternoon. I remember how honest I was; how I held nothing back, and I know that strength came from leading a circle of small people towards a willow nest. How that if you spend your morning singing songs about bluebells and making up rhymes about them; after you have picked one for each child, and told them an old tale about a cuckoo and the bluebell— why wouldn’t you want to be honest about how utterly beautiful and hopeful this world is, despite it all?

This afternoon we went to our new place and found white honesty there and I felt like the week really could not get any better. This plant reminds us to speak our truth and welcomes in all things good into our lives. I can’t think of a more magical encounter on the eve of Bealtaine, the night when the fairies are a-wandering…May Eve is a sidheógai [of the fairies] evening in Ireland. Tonight the veil is thin, so very thin. The light out there is the kind of which we only get on these gossamer days and I can feel the circle turning in my bones. Now, to bed, to the safe keeping of the world inside, as the outside dances itself towards the deep and delightful unknown. I’ve made a ring of yellow flowers on the door for protection, and I am ready for all that is about to come.

We’re launching Cacophony Of Bone at the gorgeous Gutter Bookshop on Tuesday , 6.30 to 8 pm. I so much hope to see you there x

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