Hyacinthoides non-scripta

April 28th and off we went to the bluebell woods down the road and across the fields

Let me tell you, even the cries of an egomaniacal Ruskie with small eyes and an imperfect brain, could not detract from the beauty that a field of bluebells brought.
Over the first stile felt like walking into Julia Andrews alpine field, so I ran and sung at the top of my lungs THE HIIILLSS ARE ALIIIIIVVE WITH THE SOOOOUND OF MUUUUUSIC.
At the second stile the bank of wild garlic on the side of the stream was so impressive the dawter took photos.
By the third style I was bouncing along like Tigger unaware of what was about to hit me.

At the fourth stile, over a little bridge and into the magic that was bluebell upon bluebell upon even more Hyacinthoides non-scripta. As far as the eye could see there were the bluest of bluebells .The ground carpeted with them. Round the trunks of ancient trees, through the celandines and alongside tiny white mouse ears.
Blue and yellow the colour of Ukraine, white the colour of innocence, two weeks ago we were tiptoeing through the tulips today it was the turn of the bluebells.
Then to Deer Park for a chat with Jamie the chef and Jessie the waitress, and a plate of avocado and poached eggs on sourdough, washed down with a delicious oatymilk cappuccino.

By the time we got home the sun had finally broken through the thin grey clouds. Tomorrow I intend taking the Northern Git to see the blue bells, and so will begin the weekend.
I was given an affirmation; This moment is filled with joy, I now choose to experience the sweetness of today. . Every time a naughty negative nasty pops up in my head I was told to shove it out of the way with the above. So after pigging out on an unnecessary hipster breakfast I shoved out the thought of Eastern Europe and repeated the above.

This moment is filled with joy, I now choose to experience the sweetness of today. .

My thoughts are never far away from the fearful, from the soul destroying images of broken people. I’m never far way from the vat of vomit that is our government. Empty words, empty people. I’m but a stones throw from old men wreaking havoc on the innocent trying to have a life. The arrogance of the dispassionate playing war games. Thin lipped leaders who have narcisissm running through their veins, break them and vulgarity and meanness seep out as of a stick of seaside rock. They hold us to ransom with nuclear weapons and bombast. Too afraid to confront those bullies we watch as they dismantle town after town. Just what does Vlad the fucking Bad think he is going to achieve by bombing people into submission? He is an abuser, the only way to stop the persecutor is for his victims to stare him in the eye, and I don’t mean just the Ukrainians I mean all of us. I fantasise about supergluing myself to the Kremlin along with millions and millions of others, all eyeballing him into submission.
Nonsense daydreams. He will, of course, cease to exist one day, just be a footnote in the pages of the history books. But as we live through it and I get overtaken by his bilious assault on the innocent I must keep reminding myself that:

This moment is filled with joy and I now choose to experience the sweetness of today.

I am lucky enough to live in the middle of ancient woodland. The ghost of peasants who revolted in 1381 to topple greedy landowners flutter around. If you are sensitive enough you can feel their presence. Wild deer, pheasants, crab apple trees, tufty grass and fields and fields of wild flowers. The builders fixing the gas pipes said they could smell the wild garlic but didn’t know what it was. I pointed to the stream and told the beautiful boy in the yellow jacket that wild garlic on buttery bread with cheese or egg is better than a Big Mac, he smiled and got on with his drilling.

The land round here is being dug up and built on by the descendants of those greedy landowners, everybody is selling off swathes of grass, backs of gardens, pieces of turf, taking the Queens shilling and laughing all the way to the closing banks. And the moneyed twats that are creating flooding and sewage problems, the reckless, shortsighted money grubbers think nothing of turfing out old residents from badgers to retired vicars.

This moment is filled with joy and I now choose to experience the sweetness of today.

I know, I know.

Sergey Lavrov, the Russian Foreign Minister with lies for brains, stands in his suit and tie and spouts war expletives like a scattergun, he needs to be removed along with his boss and sent to work in the salt mines of Siberia, or sent to sit in in a Mariupol cellar, or given a pen and a pad of paper and made to write ‘I will not wage war on anybody ever again’ over and over and over and over again. Hanging on to the affirmative and letting go of the negative is like peeling chewing gum off the tips of your fingers, but trusting in change and the force of good is the only way to be.

I know its hard. I know but This moment is filled with joy and I now choose to experience the sweetness of today.

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