when things feel bleak

finding comfort, health and possibility in the essentials

when things feel bleak, we like to ground ourselves in the small tasks of a simple life.

ever it was, i imagine.

at times, the social and ecological changes feel terrifyingly abrupt, not at all the resilient transition we might have planned. at others, there’s an uneasy quiet, tinged by the dread of systems in free-fall. it can all get a bit dystopian novelesque. nevertheless, we each may have potential for another story, within our hours and days. the first thing to do, both to ground our nerves and to seed a new future, is to tend to the essential.

sweeping the porch, the step, the hearth. washing the dishes, hanging the laundry, tidying up. morning rituals, afternoon gardening, evening chores. calling the old folks, friends, neighbours. feeding the culture, folding the dough, baking the bread. soaking the beans, rinsing the sprouts, cooking a pot for several meals. picking the lettuce, pulling the carrots, scrubbing the beets, making a salad. building the garden beds, reading the seed packets, sketching a plan. sowing the peas, potting on seedlings, watering the cuttings. dividing the comfrey, grafting the mulberry, pruning the apples. dragging the branches to chip or make biochar. tipping the compost, scraps to the chickens, treats to the ducks. rising at dawn, afternoon napping, early to bed. writing a story, reading a book, drawing a picture. mending jeans, knitting sweaters, sewing shirts. giving a haircut, mixing up toothpaste, carrying out loo buckets, carrying in sawdust. measuring for carpentry, planning for goslings, hoping for kid goats, watching for broody hens. having a cuddle, having folks round for tea. helping community, wherever we are, farm or city.

the list is always longer than the time at hand, even in the years when our quiet life was extra quiet. there are things we get around to, come summer, if life allows us to, things which are not essential, yet feel like a creative response to counter those dystopian narratives. making short films. writing a book. fencing another nut tree against deer. making screens for windows, designing a greenhouse, sewing a frock. plastering a room. paring down, tidying up, organising the neglected corners. sowing a wildflower meadow. catching rainwater off the henhouse. learning to ply on the spinning wheel. dancing a swing step. perfecting a dive. trying old family recipes. making an oxymel. finishing the duck pond. reading aloud from our library. building the root cellar shelves.

perhaps. but sometimes the everyday essentials are enough in themselves, wherever we are, right now, to steady us, to set another future resonating out.

truly, we find comfort, health and possibility in what we call the simple life. so we adapt in place.

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