Writing doesn’t prove anything,
And it only rarely persuades.
It does something much better.
~ Verlyn Klinkenborg
The plums are from the tree outside our kitchen window. I'd given up on it ever fruiting: every year it promised much and every year it failed greatly. Not even one solitary plum from thousands of blossoms. Except this year. It was barely a bowlful, let along a glut, but it was a great big heap more than nothing.
It's because, I think, I accidentally fed it. My gardening skills are renowned for their non-existence, but the raised sort of bricked-wall thing that it grows out of it is where I started to periodically dump some less than fresh produce I needed to clear out of the fridge and felt too guilty to throw in the bin. (We have a compost bin now! It looks like a Dalek hiding in the corner of my garden!) I guess it got composted down and turned into food and the poor old plum tree stopped being a barren starving thing.
Or perhaps it had nothing to do with anything of the sort, but we mustn't let reality get in the way of a handy metaphor. Because everything needs food to grow, even tired old middle-aged souls. Profound, I know. You can thank me in cash.
My blog has always been soul food for me and I figure now that I am embracing life in all its mundane, crappy house, chronic pain inducing glory, now's a good time to consciously throw a whole load of compost at it. I've thought for ages about what that should look like, and the only thing that feels right is to post a picture every day for the entire year of something in that day. With commentary. To attest and witness.
Hope your holiday season was a most excellent one. See you on the other side.