absolutelynotnormal

“Because hope is a knife that can cut through the foundations of the world.”

– Seanan McGuire, ‘Every Heart a Doorway‘

There are cracks in our world. The gaps between the defined areas of space, time, and feeling. The thin places, the liminal places, the edges … and in these places, you find, well, stuff.

In the dim, green world between field and lane, small brown bodies flitter lightly between the branches of the hawthorn. There’s a subtle undercurrent of arguing and claiming. Individuals staking out their place in the world. A sudden detonation. Frantic wingbeats. Two tiny feathered missiles explode out of the foliage in a shower of snowy petals. A scuffle. Strident whistles. A more measured retreat, back into the green. A single brown feather floats gently to the ground. Calm ensues.

The sharp edges of the window imprison blue skies within a square metal frame. Featureless expanses of white board surround the frame. Harsh fluorescent lights glare down on the long table beneath and the tired eyes surrounding it. But through the portal of the glass lies a different world, a wilder world. A twisted tangle of branches flourish atop gnarled, ridged trunks. Burgeoning leaves tinge the trees with the palest of spring greens. A pair of crows perch on the upper branches before flaunting their freedom and dancing away on the air currents.

Amidst the muted russets, reds, and browns of the bricks on the patio, a tiny seed has just alighted. A gossamer thin, fluffy parachute has brought it to this seemingly barren landscape, and it’s ready to take advantage. It drifts sideways, slips between the paviours, and hunkers down. It’s a slow, steady invasion, but it has no doubts that it will be a successful campaign. Tiny threads extend from the seed where it’s touching soil. They creep slowly through the dark, branching again and again until they’ve created a solid network. A small green periscope is sent upwards towards the light before stealthily unfolding. This advance scout is soon joined by thin green leaves that spread out to create a rosette. Over time, the root system swells, and in its centre, a thick anchor is sent far into the soil in search of water and nutrients. The leaves thicken and spread, twisting and turning to capture as much sunlight as possible. From the top of the central root, a sturdy stem is extended, tipped with a tethered sun. After a brief supernova, scouts are sent out from the heart of a dying sun to conquer new lands.

There’s a tiny triangle of ground between the concrete walkway and the wall of the library where things are stirring. It’s a barren space, thanks mainly to the efforts of the previous caretaker who, to my horror, carefully salted the whole space. But it seems enough time (and water) have passed to make it habitable again. Tiny holes are appearing in the soil, and small black bees are moving in. They buzz busily around, staking their claim.

Nature 1 : 0 Caretaker

It’s almost dark; the garden is draped in shadow, and I’ve retreated to the sofa to read my book. Suddenly, there’s a face at the window. Not a human face, that would be horrifying, but the face of a curious muntjac. Her slim, brown face has a darker stripe down its centre and is topped with mobile ears. She peers curiously at the window, and I realise that she’s not seeing me; it must still be light enough that she sees only her own reflection. Behind her is a male, his single pointed antlers flaring upwards from his head and two small tusks descending from his upper jaw. I stand to open the door and usher them swiftly out of my garden, closing the unintended gap in the fence behind them. I’m not a fan.

The garrigue is more green than I’ve seen it in a while, but it’s the end of May now, and it’s starting to dry out and fade to its more usual dry browns and khaki greens. Grasses that were lush and damp at the beginning of the week are becoming drier and scratchier now. The bright, soft new green of the holme oak growth is quickly darkening and ageing to a leathery finish. Last year’s leaves drift underfoot, their rustling sepia shades matching the stones and fallen branches they share space with. The sun is bright in the cerulean sky above, and the light is harsh along the pathways. It’s difficult to see much as I rattle and crunch along, but that space between the pathway and the forest is always worth watching. There they are. Little pennants of pale pink held aloft on slender, dark green stems. They seem to hover in patches of dappled shade, almost disappearing if the sun hits them fully. Cephalanthera rubra. Red Helleborine. Their Latin name seems to fit them better, seems to reflect their delicate, wispy flowers more aptly. They’ll be gone in a week, but for now, their fairy flowers abound.