It has been so cold recently. The coldest beginning of June I can remember since we moved to these parts nine years ago. I wish I could tell you that each time the winter season comes around I am better prepared, more accepting and embracing of it's unique opportunities and prompts - but I'm not. I loathe it. My whole body seems to go on protest: sore, knotted, aching, raw, sad. I have some deeper issues with my health and specifically my thyroid that we are trying to pin down and support - and interestingly one of it's symptoms is poor circulation and an increased sensitivity to the cold. Knowing this helps, if only to remind me that my body is actually finding it more difficult to winter than previous years. I wish I could curl up in a cave to hibernate and reappear with the bright sun in spring! 

I recently finished knitting a shawl using a skein of handspun and dyed wool I bought on my birthday weekend at Tarndie Farm. I used some other fingering weight yarn a friend gave me. All through the knitting process I wondered how these colours would sit together, how unusual and theatrical they seemed. I wasn't sure I would like it, let alone want to wear it. And now the shawl is finished I chuckle at it's honest reflection of winter: the brown wood for the heater, table tops and toast, the silver frost, grey hairs, woollen jumpers, and the red rosehips, beetroots, swollen fingertips, blessed life-giving blood. Best of all it's soft and warm, exactly what I need. 

How are you going? Is it winter for you or is summer unfurling? If you were here I'd put the kettle on and we would pull our chairs close to fire and sip warm relief. Take care x

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 // 

Down by the river
no boys playing,
banks submerged with rain -
everything rushing,
gushing, gurgling,
sodden and soaking,
debris caught and foaming. 

I watch the water
mesmerised,
it's a funny kind of sympathy
she reflecting me:
that spilling out, forcefully, 
an overflow of feelings
days of rain and howling winds bring -
of wondering, half-sleeping,
weeks of lockdown and isolation
familiar paths, unsettling us
again and again.

I'm a mess of worry and relief
we know we're the lucky ones
with animals safe, with house in tact 
that's dry and warm -
spirit within us, hovering,
rest and disturbance. 

Down by the river
I'm a woman lingering, 
listening to the flow -
birds are singing,
darting in the trees
and on my face
blessed sun, shining.

Early June is quiet and cold. Rain and wind shakes off what remains of the autumn leaves. I watch boys ride bikes around puddles and muddy their knees. Slowly, I clear out the garden of weeds and dead things, add to the bonfire pile and compost heap. Mulch the broccoli and leeks. Sow beans, peas, lettuce and carrot seeds. Prune the roses and the plum tree. I spy the green tips of bulbs emerging, hyacinth and daffodils. Inside the wood heater is kept stoked and warm. We mark off the days until the lockdown lifts, then the days until the school holidays, how long till spring begins. I bake often - for hunger and comfort, elevenses and afternoon tea. Winter is reading in bed with a hot water bottle on your chest and socks on your feet. Winter is slowing down whether you want to or not, feeling the cold and savouring heat //
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Banana, Coconut + Raspberry Bread
125 butter, softened
1 cup brown sugar // OR 1 cup honey or maple syrup
2 ripe bananas
4 eggs
1/4 cup olive oil
3/4 cup rice flour + 3/4 tapioca starch // OR 1 + 1/2 cups GF plain flour mix
​1/2 cup coconut flour // OR desiccated coconut for a rougher texture
1/2 tsp ground cinnamon 
1/2 tsp ground nutmeg 
2 teaspoons GF baking powder
1 cup frozen raspberries // OR berries of your choice // OR 100g chopped dark chocolate
Makes 1 large loaf
- - -
In a large bowl or mixer cream together butter and sugar - followed by mashed bananas, eggs and olive oil. Mix in flours, spices and baking powder. It should be a thick batter consistency. Finally gently stir in raspberries. Pour mixture into a high-sided loaf tin that has been well-greased (or lined with baking paper - I usually just squash a rectangle of baking paper into the tin) and make in a moderate oven at 180'c for 45 mins - 1 hour. It will be ready once a skewer or knife inserted into the centre of the bread comes out clean. 

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GF Anzacs with a twist
2 cups quinoa flakes
1 cup puffed amaranth 
1 cup desiccated coconut
zest of 1 orange
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 cup GF plain four // OR 1/2 cup each rice flour and tapioca starch
1 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup honey
200g butter
1 1/2 teaspoon baking soda 
- - -

Preheat moderate oven to 180'c. Place quinoa, amaranth, coconut, flour, zest, cinnamon, flour and brown sugar in a large bowl. Meanwhile heat the butter and honey in a saucepan over a low heat until the butter is melted. Remove from the heat and stir in bicarb soda (it will fizz up a bit) - tip wet mixture into the dry ingredients and stir to combine. Shape a heaped tablespoon of mixture into paper-lined oven trays (I ended up with four trays of cookies). Use a fork to flatten the tops and bake for 12-15 minutes until golden. Cool and store in an airtight container - they last ages! 

Down by the river 
three boys throwing rocks
and launching leaf boats,
we marvel at the flow 
banks swollen with rain 

yes there’s a wild peace
a wet peace and peace 
among the moss and rocks, 
wavering willow limbs

gifts of gurgling, 
gifts of sunshine 
gifts of wrens in hawthorn, 
a single white feather on the ground 

it’s cold when clouds come: 
we shudder and wonder
if it’s home that’s calling us 
or just the magpies warbling 
an afternoon song

down by the river we always find 
we won’t need much at all.
​

A blessing from the winter sky:
blue crispness to smile under
grey shrouds to sorrow in

A blessing from the tall trees:
grey gum, golden wattle
shivering elm, naked oak

A blessing from the sparkling frost:
crunch of grass underfoot
bright sun upon your face

A blessing from the rain:
deep soaking of your soul
bulbs and seeds about to burst

A blessing from the dark earth:
slow work of worms
and webbing of roots

A blessing from the cold wind:
breath made visible
warmth of wood and wool
​
A blessing from the long night:
a welcome to your shadows
love enfolding sleep

​here we are again
wintering,
we delight in the green of our garden,
cabbages and snow pea shoots, 
bulbs emerging, 
how quickly the body 
changes with the season -
craves warm cups of tea
and sunshine on the cheek,
hopes for clothes to dry on the line,
clear noses, more sleep -
as farm life begins to slow,
we are so very ready to unplug,
unwind, stretch those tired muscles,
help a back heal, ask big questions
about ourselves, our future, dreams -
we lie awake at night
for the unknowns,
for the night feeds,
we rise in the morning
our breath made visible in the crisp air
the kettle boils slowly, the porridge slower still -
and sometimes the pasture is covered in sparkling frost
and sometimes when we drive to school the fog is so thick
we can barely see ahead, then pulling up by the playground
we hear children running around laughing,
for the novelty of the thing - 
this season,
and it's only just beginning.