I feel the season turning around and within. The trees becoming golden and brown, letting leaves fall and helicopter seeds. There's woodsmoke in the air, and the sight of zinnia flowers faded after frost and the recently prolific zucchini plants all soggy and shriveled. Many hundreds of forget-me-not sprouts and honeywort and lettuce and broad beans.  I walk the same farm-worn path, around and around, and watch the rabbits darting for burrows, the rosellas in the hawthorn, and hear the bok bok of frogs. Our chicken guard dog, Eva, is wise enough to lie down in the midday sun and soak up all the heat it provides. I join her on the grass. These are the weeks of big feelings, of letting go, unleaving. And also the days of making, baking, reading, rekindling the flame.

Walking in the forest on an autumn afternoon. The gentle sun filters through every crack and bug-eaten leaf. It is a lesson in shadow and light, in life and decay. Underfoot the crunch of leaves, the snap of sticks, the remains of a dead fox or two, the slow gurgle of the river. The forest is a hidden world, sheltered from the wind, and creaking with willow limbs, oak, elm, holly, hawthorn. Foreign and familiar. Stooping down we see the tiny cyclamens blooming in lilac magnificence, mossy stumps and spider threads. Three boys and a man sit perched in a high up branch. I hear them laughing as I pack my camera away and feel the dappled light on my face //

Christmas was a day of blessing, of excitement and sunshine, quiet and calm, candlelight. It was perhaps the simplest and gentlest one we've had as a family (in part owning to my being so weary and recovering from recent illness), and yet it was a day overflowing with love, and mugs of warm tea, good food and company, hearty thankfulness. 

May all God wants
to bless you with
come to be, and may
your inner mangers,
fresh with hope,
hold wonders of His love,
and splendors of His world,
and wisdoms of His word

May peace surround you,
behind and before you,
your words and work,
your hearth and kin,
and all the friends 
you haven't seen,
in your heart speak:
the prince of peace 

And as the trees of the field
clap their hands,
may you sing joy -
marvel in the clouds
bees and sprouting seeds
full plates and grubby chins,
jolly abandon
it all begins with love.

Winter ending and all about us glimmers of colour and life emerging: growing grass and velvety moss a shocking green which months of soaking rain will bring. There's blue through skeleton trees, that if you look carefully reveal tiny shoots and buds.  The garden gifts us lettuce, spinach and broccoli florets and the fattest worms we've ever seen. Longer days means more eggs laid and outdoor rambles before tea. I spy a rainbow on the fridge and all manner of drawings plastered above boys' beds. So much good food on our tables, freuqent celebrations for little things. And everywhere we look daffodils and jonquils blooming. Thankful // 

Midwinter is damp and overcast and my hands ache in the cold // We enter our fifth lockdown and return to the rollercoaster of big feelings and disappointments, slowness and exasperation // The heater is lit every day and kept glowing hot over night, and the nook beside it is perfectly cat shaped // Wood cut from trees that blew over in the storm are stacked up to dry // Craft brings much comfort - face masks for friends and family, a colorful beret from leftover yarn scraps and a thin nae shawl in a delicious deep red // Hope is a short walk every day on my own, ruby rose hips on a dry vine, wax flowers on the kitchen bench, flower buds on the Chinese quince // Hope is everything beautiful and true and praiseworthy, the Good Shepherd who leads me gently on, in everything we can't see yet, a cup of hot tea, a ray of sunshine on the cheek // 

Lovely things bringing colour to my life: golden fennel flowers, profusion of pink hebe and the zinnias about to open // in my hands a top I'm knitting for my sister in the most theatrical and luscious yarn, a row added each morning and evening as the kettle comes to boil // on the table flowers for my son, to mark his 9th birthday and also balloons and a giant fruit mince pie (as requested), holding this beautiful human tight and delighting in him reading, snug in my hammock, as the sun sets // the sight and sounds of the farm's not-so-little and very enthusiastic goat kids, nibbling our hands, tickling, bleating for oak leaves (or anything really) // cutting fresh plums in half for tarts, eating them whole, stewing them slowly // savouring the summer rain and mild mornings, the return of school, beginning of kindergarten and my weekly studies, sandal wearing and overnight-zucchinis and everything this season brings... 

"The question of attention in the age of digital media may ultimately come down to the question of limits, the acceptance of which may be the condition of a more enduring joy and satisfying life. What digital media promises on the other hand is an experience of limitlessness exemplified by the infinite scroll. It tempts us to become gluttons of the hyperreal. There is always more, and much of it may even seem urgent and critical. But we cannot attend to it all, nor should we. I know this, of course, but I need to remind myself more frequently than I’d care to admit."  
- M.ichael Sacasas, from his article: "Attention, Austerity, Freedom"

Earlier this month I quit instagram. 

I had spent almost six years sharing publicly: lovely photogenic bits of my life: farm, kids, meals, garden, sunsets, flowers in hand and crafty projects. Highlights and carefully curated lowlights, poems, recipes, thoughts. It was almost six years of watching other people's lives too, people I knew in real life and others I'd never met before - their faces, homes, artworks, babies, businesses, handmade clothes, coffee mugs, freshly baked loaves of bread. 

I joined in 2015 when everyone else seemed to be there. I was drawn to the visual nature of it: photos with little notes accompanying. It felt so much more interesting and enjoyable than other social media platforms that were focused on text and emojis. It also seemed a more convenient way to share (and follow) than writing and reading blog posts. The blog was dead, we all said. I had a toddler and a newborn baby, we were learning to farm and start a small business from scratch - it seemed the perfect place to document the journey: to fix the beautiful, ridiculous and important scenes in time. 

Then something began to shift in me, in the platform, my feed became a way to idealise my own experiences: an easy way to escape the monotony and difficulty of life with three tiny people dependant on me and a business that was holding on by fragile threads. I thought about it constantly, and in the middle of moments, how I could document and caption them later in a post. 

I loved how it gave me a sense of accomplishment, a reward for my doing. I loved how it seemed to justify and reinforce the life choices I had made. I loved how connected I felt to people, how it allowed me to do less real life socialising and the (more difficult) reaching out to friends and family through phone and email. I also loved how immediate the feedback was - almost instantly - the likes. I'd rationalise that the liking and comments weren't important: they weren't a reflection of me, or my worth - but in my body was a different story: the quick release of dopamine-laced warmth was something I wanted everyday if I could, and I was becoming addicted. 

I felt gripped, somehow beholden - like I couldn't leave but couldn't stay. I was spending on average 1.5-2.5 hours every on it. Scrolling, checking, reading, liking, watching stories, posting, re-reading my own posts and reviewing other people's posts I'd put in my bookmarked folders for ideas and inspirations (inevitably leading to looking up patterns and products).  I called it a "little hobby", "a non-essential", "a tool for decompressing" but really it took up a big part of my life. 

I tried extended breaks from it - some for a few weeks, the longest was four months. It would follow a predictable pattern: I would feel increasingly unhappy and overwhelmed using it, decided to leave for a while, delete the app from my phone, almost immediately feel better to no longer have the temptation to use it, followed days later by sadness and irritability (a withdrawal of sorts, with regular unlocking and locking of my phone), followed by calm relief, clarity, peacefulness. I would ask myself why I even used it anymore, and talk to friends and family who were willing to hear me ramble around in circles. Then I'd decide to return - download the app again - resolve to use the platform differently, with more boundaries and a lighter grip. It wasn't the platform, it was me I'd say, I can approach it differently! And I would, to begin with... but then I'd inevitably circle back to the uncomfortable, addictive mode. 

In the past twelve months I've read and listened to some really thoughtful, challenging articles, podcasts and books on how social media is changing us: our culture, politics and relationships (see bottom of this post for more references and links). I really believe we need to speak about our experiences and gather together to brainstorm some best practice tools for these platforms and the important needs they meet - as well as call for appropriate governmental industry regulation. 

I recently borrowed Jaron Lanier's books "10 Arguments for Deleting your Social Media Right Now" and "You are not a gadget" from my local library. I'd seen Lanier in the Netflix documentary, The Social Dilemma, last year and was intrigued in his perspective as a computer scientist and "internet pioneer" but also a philosopher and musician. He is deeply concerned about social media platforms that play into our human desires for attention, approval and connection, whilst also exacerbating addiction, sadness, alienation, irrational behaviour, intolerance and mob mentality. He asks why organisations that purport to be "for people" rely on the free sharing of data that is collected and sold, targeted advertising and algorithms aimed at modifying human behaviour that ultimately go against people. Pit people against each other. Lanier is not anti-technology, or anti-internet - quite the opposite - he is calling for more dialogue around how to nurture personal dignity and promote diverse and kind community within the online world. These lines of his really stood out to me: 

"The most important thing to ask about any technology is how it is changing people"

"If we associate human identity with the digital reduction instead of reality at large we will reduce ourselves" 

Between Christmas and New Year, I contemplated a 2021 without instagram. A proper twelve month break. But then the thought of moving on altogether, deleting my entire account and it's six year history became more and more appealing. A number of friends, independently of me and for various reasons, decided to leave for good. Some left due to concerns in IG's changing terms of use, some for personal reasons and mental health. 

In the end quitting instagram was my answer to an ongoing dilemma I found myself in. It felt good to realise I did have a choice and this could be mine. I know it doesn't "fix" the structural problems within the platform, or  my own baggage around why I became addicted. It also creates a new burden of exploring ways to stay in touch with friends and connections made primarily through it. I really do miss "seeing" the glimpses of life on there - the creative community and diverse, provocative voices. I need to make more effort now to seek those out in other ways. 

Quitting marks the end of a six year chapter - almost as old as my second born son. And while it is sad and painful in many ways, it has also made space and time in my life for something new. It has allowed me - so far - to rest, to contract, and to begin things I have long dreamed of like re-enrolling in my studies and in launching a monthly newsletter celebrating the seasons of life. 

So many things made Christmas feel special this year: waking up with my sister and a dear friend to celebrate with us // Filling the house with flowers from the garden: feverfew, smoke bush, hydrangeas, valerian, lavender, dahlias and nasturtiums // Feasting on so many delicious things like ricotta pancakes for breakfast, trout gravlax Alex prepared, creamy potato salad with homegrown dill, rosemary crackers the boys helped me make with the best local pate, pavlova adorned with fresh fruit, cherries and roasted peanuts in their shells // Spending the afternoon outside in the mild summer air napping, playing games and reading books // Watching the house grow dark and quiet after all the excitement and intensity of the day // Lighting all the advent candles and saying a payer of thanksgiving for the Christchild and all the gifts He brings...