Coming home
Chapter 17
In Disney’s old animated film, Jungle Book, Baloo says “You’re a human, Mowgli, you belong with them, it’s time to go back to the village.” “No! I’m one of you, I belong in the jungle” the boy protests.
In Rudyard Kipling’s original writing, after several years of living as a wolf, Mowgli is cast out of their tribe by the young wolves who resent his ability to hold their gaze. Like cats, they have to look away. He is received into a village. After a few months, with the help of four loyal wolves he successfully causes the death of the man-eating tiger, Sher Khan. Then Mowgli is cast out by the human tribe who are afraid of his friendship with wild animals.
Rudyard Kipling writes that Mowgli says “Ahae! My heart is heavy with the things that I do not understand.” Kipling goes on, “So Mowgli went away and hunted with the four cubs in the jungle, from that day on. But he was not always alone, because years afterwards, he became a man and married. But that is a story for grownups.”
We are lying on the sofa with our feet up. Bob is looking at his phone while I stare at the ceiling. “You seem quiet”, says Bob. I always admire his courage when he makes this observation with a question in his voice. He never knows what he is getting into. It might be “Yeah, I’ve got a headache”. Or, “Actually I’m quite annoyed with you”. Today it’s a benign reply but lengthy. “I’m lost in huge thoughts, have you got a minute to listen?” He has got a minute, or even ten.
“I’ve been pondering about feeling separate from the garden. It’s as if I used to feel more at home out there than in here. But I’ve shifted with the illness and being parted from my habit of working out there. D’you remember that a couple of years ago I said I’d decided to fall in love with indoors?” Bob says that he does. I carry on, “For a while now I’ve been unpicking my low-lying dislike of human made things. Falling in love with the toaster, I mean, how lovely is that? A human designed a machine than can transform stale bread into warm fragrant toast with a click of a button. Someone made the plate that the toast sits on, the cup, and the kettle.” As an engineer, Bob has always appreciated things that are made well, and he’s respected the makers’ part in that. He may be impressed with my change of heart but doesn’t interrupt.
“Remember that retreat that I went on last autumn? I was moaning to Sabah about the approach of November and the inevitable Giving Thanks To The Ancestors. I told her that the toxic behaviour that I experienced in my family goes back at least two generations and I’ve thought of it as a canker that I was ashamed of being related to and wanted to cut out of myself. I’ve distanced myself from those ancestors and don’t want to be reminded of them thank you very much.”
I plough on, “She said that she has always thought of human ancestors more broadly. The birthing of the human race starting in the heart of Africa, where palaeontologists have unearthed our probable beginnings. Even further back, our ancestorial roots are tiny organisms. Her words helped me to get a sense of the ancient heart of humanity, and my poor old family being a twig on a massive tree. My origins become so tiny in this gigantic garden of life.” Bob gets this as he’s interested in evolution.
“Thanks for listening”, I say, “Fancy a walk round the garden with me?” “Well I’ve got a lot to do” he replies, “So I can only spare a few minutes.” Although he has retired some years ago, people still ask him to advise on railway electrification projects. It’s great when he’s busy on a project at the same time as me. I have been known to get a bit tetchy when he hasn’t got time to play, but I have. Today I’m sincere when I say, “That’s o.k. I’ll go on my own”. I‘d rather not have an unwilling companion alongside. “No, no, I’ll come” he says tersely. Years ago I complained to him, “Just because you don’t say when you’re annoyed doesn’t mean I don’t know it’s happening. Why don’t you just say it?” “Sweetheart,” he replied, “If I told you every time I’m irritated by you, you’d leave me.” I found this oddly comforting.
He waits whilst I pile on my padded coat, woolly hat, gloves, boots and a scarf to fill any possible gaps for cold air to sneak into. Bob wears a tee shirt, jeans and a fleece jacket that he doesn’t bother to zip up. One of us is very peculiar.
It’s the kind of damp, raw cold that stings your nose and makes your front teeth ache, even though the air is still. The woodland trees are still naked and the branches on the dogwood glow a deep red. Although the sun is not out, the top lawn is bright with primroses and tiny magenta cyclamen. Our two clumps of snowdrops have finished flowering and the daffodils buds that haven’t been scoffed by pheasants or blackbirds, are beginning to unfold.
Down the zigzag path leading to the first terrace, we inspect the stumps of tulips which, judging by the pile of droppings, have been eaten by the rabbit who has unofficially moved in. It’s also grazing on the pittosporums, which needed pruning anyway. After a while Bob goes back indoors to get on with some work. I potter past the new raised beds and see that the exotic irises that I planted last autumn have all disappeared, except one. Squirrels? Another possible culprit is the slug curled up in the hollowed out centre of the remaining corm. It looks like a well-fed cat asleep in its basket, and I haven’t the heart to scoop it out and throw it into the woods.
I’m spending so much time just looking, and not even making a list of gardening jobs. I seem to have lost the habit. Blackspot? Well, it’s not going to go away, no matter what the bottles and cartons of deterrent claim. Jude The Obscure was a favourite rosebush which has withered and died this last year. A foxglove will soon move into the vacant space. There is still a tingle in my hands when I remember rummaging in the soil for hours, busily teasing out weeds and tucking in new plants. Being useful, or so I thought. Can I be part of my garden by stroking a leaf or listening to its sounds? I’m beginning to see that being immersed, once meant doing practical things.
Drifting further down I sit, leaning back on the big pond seat. It’s soggy with all the rain but my coat and bum are well padded. Looking into the mirror of water, our five half grown orfe are lazily circling like sinuous carrots. Overhead long tailed tits flit between the hawthorn tree by the pond and the nearby woodland. Arguments are breaking out with the robin who apparently owns the hawthorn . Then, higher still, the buzzard soars. Even though I’ve closed my eyes, I know the buzzard has arrived as all the little birds have gone quiet.
This garden is now almost empty of vegetation in the centre. When I rest on the swing seat, a couple of metres away, beyond the deck, the rest of nature buzzes and flaps and crawls. And tangles and blooms and fruits. And shrivels and dies and feeds whatever comes along.
Maybe I was forced through ill health, into sitting, looking and reflecting, or maybe I’d have come to this anyway, I think that I’ve become hefted to Life. When I open the bedroom window in the morning and hang out saying “Hello Life, how are you this morning?”, I feel part of it all. The house made by people but all the materials come from the earth, as do the people.
Bob and I are in the kitchen having lunch and I’m grimacing whilst eating rocket and spinach leaves which are good for you. Taking my mind off the salad by having big thoughts, I say, “After a lifetime of hating humans at some level, I’ve noticed that it’s just not there anymore. I don’t know why it’s gone. Maybe something to do with forgiveness? Any way, it’s changed how I feel about everything. Right now, it’s enough to sit and just be here”.
“Go for it” says Bob.
Following on from the memoir are four essays from other keen gardeners who are around seventy years old and have various physical limitations. They all answered the same 6 questions at my request.