Building a small roof

Without doubt one of the most positive discoveries of the year to date has been that there are an awful lot of people out there who wish you well despite not really knowing you, that will try to help although it will have no direct benefit to them and put in a kind word or action out of the blue.We are still riding the big dipper of emotions on a daily basis and trying hard not to project to a rosy future where all is easy and secure, as this leaves us vulnerable to the sudden disappointments that still keep cropping up. There have been some wonderful lucky breaks and serendipity and one cannot help but think along the lines of fate; how a loss has lead to a gain in another area and an unpromising path has ended not at a precipice but in a green wooded copse.

The learning curve has also been steep and my 'reading ahead' of the process has lead me to discover all kinds of information irrelevant in the present that may well be my saviour in future unexpected moments of need.

This morning the snow has come back in timely fashion; just when I was going to head out on a list of unwelcome chores, I am thinking that a quiet day painting and playing with my new software will be a far more soul-boosting and productive exercise in the long run. Sitting in the garden at 7am pondering the above and making a small roof for my baby cherry tree out of sticks and a jiffy bag I am feeling strangely calm and optimistic once more.

A roof for a cherry tree; a foolhardy creation on the lines of Canute trying to hold back the sea, but born of compassion and a hope for the preservation of beauty against the forces that may destroy it. A couple of years ago the council chopped down two wonderful mature cherries on the burnside out the back of my house to make way for... nothing, it transpired. They were in the way of the machines that were sent to concrete over portions of the stream banks in the name of flood control; another 'Canute-ism' if ever there was one. Ever since, the cherry has been a bit of a totem to me; a symbol for the things of beauty that are so casually erased on a daily basis in the name of advancement or self interest. We miss the clouds of petals in April and feel for the birds who now roost in spindly, unsuitable ash saplings or on lamp posts.

Displaced pigeons mourn

Loss of blossom on spring breeze:

No fruit will follow.