Yesterday we walked out in the late afternoon to take what might be our last look at the bluebells on the Forest Path. The bluebells in our garden have long gone to seed but the ones in the forest are only now fading.
By the next time we walk there I expect it will be full of Himalayan balsam. The plants are already quite tall and too numerous for anyone to have a chance of pulling them all up.
In the meantime we have poppies.
Mr Trump has been getting cross about Springsteen badmouthing America while on stage in Manchester:
“Never liked him, never liked his music, or his Radical Left politics, and, importantly, he’s not a talented guy - just a pushy, obnoxious JERK.”
Well, I guess The Boss does not
impress him. Somehow, shouting out about it just reminds people that Springsteen criticised Trump! So it goes!
Our wild flower garden is full of bees. I was reading the other day about a custom of “telling the bees”. Those who have bee hives once had the custom of keeping the bees informed of events in the human world. Beekeepers in 18th and 19th century Europe and America believed that bees were not just insects—they were members of the family, messengers between this world and the next. And like any family member, they deserved to be told when something significant happened. So if someone died or got married or had a baby, a member of the family would go and knock on he hive and quietly tell the bees what had been going on. Legend said that if the bees were not told, they might fall ill, stop producing honey, abandon the hive—or worse, die. I must remember to tell our 8 year old granddaughter this when next she does a little panic because a bee has inadvertently flown in through an open door or window and needs help finding its way out. We need to keep old stories and traditions alive.
Here’s someone called Mohammed Matter on social media, writing about life in Gaza, something else we must not forget
“My brother risked his life, went out of his apartment amid explosions and shooting in the area, desperate to find a shelter for his, my family in Gaza. some place safer, even just slightly more dignified. But the reality on the ground crushed that hope. The roads were flooded with people, all searching for the same thing: safety. The tents were stacked side by side, no privacy, no space, no basic human needs. Just heat, chaos, and despair.
He came back and said he’d rather die in his half destroyed apartment than live like that; not out of weakness, but out of exhaustion. Out of the pain of seeing his children suffer more.
This is what it means to “evacuate” in Gaza. It’s not safety. It’s not refuge. It’s a slow, humiliating erosion of what it means to live.
Meanwhile my whole family. My mother, brothers, sisters, nephews and nieces are in a very dangerous zone and they all live close to each others.
The next 24 hours will be soo tough.”
That’s all.
Life goes on. Stay s ate and well, everyone!
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