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| A universe of ivy, November 2015 |
Today has already brought many blessings. The first was allowing
myself a long lie in with my new husband sleeping softly beside me.
The second was getting cold and damp when I went into our garden to
feed the birds, which is one of my favourite moments of the day. I
enjoy ritual that is lightly-held and my current morning observance
is to first take seed and water, sometimes an apple or some cheese,
to the waiting doves in the garden. The starlings are always waiting
too but prefer to be clandestine about it. It feels both tender and
important to feed the birds first thing on winter mornings, whilst I
wait for the kettle to boil. Whereas in the summer and autumn they
might visit the bird feeder briefly and then fly to richer spoils
elsewhere, in the winter months they tend to gather; doves,
starlings, blue tits, wood pigeons, magpies, jackdaws, sometimes a
red-belied woodpecker or a wren, in our cherry trees and look for all
the world like a 'Council of Birds' discussing the merits, or
otherwise, of the day's offerings. If there have been none until
lunchtime I feel chastened. I would much rather feed the birds first
thing and not feel the weight of their disapproval. And I do so love
the featherkin and take joy in the connection.
Yesterday, I had occasion to visit a large supermarket, which I
dislike doing, and noticed that a starling was trapped inside, flying
from one side of the cavernous store in a panic of wings. I raised
this with the staff there who told the 'kindest thing' was to kill
it, as it was scared and would also set off their security alarms
during the night. I felt that death would not be the 'kindest thing'
and told them so. They were unhelpful and I spent the part of the
evening contacting the RSPCA, RSPB, and the supermarket's head
office. I am hoping that the starling has now been safely rescued. I
hope. And yet in those moments in the supermarket I felt the tiny
beating heart of the star-feathered starling as though it were my own
and felt as taut as a fiddle string all that evening. I feel trapped
in supermarkets too. I had gone there to buy honey, and yet I am old
enough to remember when me and my mum went to buy honey from a
bee-keeper or a cart by the side of the road laden with eggs, fresh
vegetables, honey, and sometimes cut flowers. with an 'honesty tin'
for the money. It is still like that on many canals I am happy to
say. Writing this now, I remember when my mother, brother, and I
would cycle, what seemed like miles to my small legs, to buy potatoes
from a house along a sandy lane. I found the lack of tarmac
fascinating! Perhaps those of us who are now in our fifties and older
are the last ones who will remember such ways of being. I understand
about feeling trapped in a life that is unfamiliar, and so I hope for
the liberation of that little bird.
And so this morning I began my Sunday by getting cold and damp, which
leads me to the third blessing; that of hot bath water. I love baths.
One of the things that made me reticent to move here was that, even
though there is a bath, baths were not had due to strange creakings
and bangings in the walls when the bath was filled, as though one
might fall into the kitchen which I was reticent to do. Since then
that particular situation has resolved itself and I have enjoyed many
baths. That was until the water upstairs in our little
hedge~hermitage became no longer hot enough for baths; something
about water pressure. I have taken to having unsatisfactory showers
and immersing myself in the brightness and warmth of candle flames
instead. And yet, this morning, hot water! And so, I have had the most wonderfully hot bath, which has warmed me through from the cold and damp ~ and
all the better for the contrast between the two.
Whilst in the bath I indulged in my current winter reading; Kathleen
Jamie's, 'Findings'. Her writing is so hauntingly beautiful in its
simplicity and, no doubt deceptive, ease. I was left feeling that my
own writing, and possibly entire life, is fashioned by someone who
has much in common with a web-spinning caffeine-soaked house spider.
It is both a benediction and a challenge to be reminded so and I have
breathed deeply before writing this in an effort to clear my mind of
all thoughts of conveying a dozen ideas in a single sentence.
Today,
'Findings' has brought me to tears twice. Once through the
description of the beleaguered corncrake, forced
by modern farming techniques into its final stronghold in the
Hebrides having been present in every county from Cornwall to
Shetland less than a century ago
as, 'little
gods of the fields', “standing chins up, open-beaked, like votive
statues hidden in the grass.” (1, p.98) John Clare wrote of corncrakes and
would have grieved at their passing. I think that he would have liked
the description of them as 'little gods'. This combination of John Clare and the holiness of small
brown birds was more than enough to cause tears. The second passage
that touched
me was Jamie's description of the art of observing and seeing as a
“kind of prayer. The care and maintenance of the web of our
noticing, the paying heed.” (1, p.109) Like Jamie, I don't pray, in
the accepted definition of the term at least,
but I do try to be 'prayerful', to make every moment a prayer and a
communion with what is sacred. And
what is sacred is everything ~ the sun on the sea, a gossamer strand
on a hawthorn hedge, a chance meeting with a kindred spirit who was a stranger only a moment before, rot on an apple, a wasp's sting, rust, love ~ all are a
prayer. And one of my favourite prayers in winter is the wild and
tangled life of the
British native evergreen,
hedera
helix ~
ivy.
My copy of 'The
Gardener's Book of Weeds' by Mea Allan, which I found in a skip in
Deptford ~ pleasingly fallow and fitting ground to find a book on
weeds I thought ~ describes ivy as both 'bad' and 'for burning'. She
writes of her father buying a garden, together with 'an incidental
cottage', and of attempting to rid the long unused garden of weeds,
especially of ivy. “The apex of the long triangular garden, a dense
shade under Holm Oaks, was carpeted thick with it, and hardly a tree
had escaped its embrace. Shifted on a pitch-fork, pile by pile as we
tore it down, the bonfire crackled like a merry Guy Fawkes Night.” (2, p.10) She goes on to say that, “Its method of climbing is by aerial roots
which find their way into cracks and crevices...it can be a menace in
eating into the mortar of old walls, the weight of its foliage and
branches eventually causing their destruction. On the ground its
dense growth of impermeable leaves will prevent rain from seeping
down into the soil.” (2, p.10) Poor, poor ivy. I have so rarely heard a good
word said about it, and have often heard it spoken about with much
vitriol, and yet it is such a blessing to the autumn and winter
earth. And even its 'destruction' of walls has been disputed in a
study by English Heritage who found that, although it might exploit
already present holes and cracks, it won't make new ones and will
form a 'thermal blanket', regulating moisture and absorbing damaging
pollutants (5). Even Mea Allan, who is not truly a hater of weeds but is
really not keen on ivy, goes on to grudgingly celebrate that it can
be useful in bringing shady corners to life and providing a
“substantial windbreak and nesting places for birds, your allies in
helping to keep down insect pests.” I look forward to a day when
something of nature is valued in and for itself, rather than for the
benefit that it might provide to us, but this is something. Even ivy
is not all 'bad'.
Far from being 'bad'
at all, ivy is a wonder and full of dark and tangled enchantments,
which we all need if our hearts are to stay wild and our eyes bright.
It would be a sad thing indeed if life became too obvious. Its
tenacity is a symbol of survival and determination, of the ability to
endure, to tolerate deeply unpromising conditions, and for the
benefit of accepting support, all much needed in these austere and
worrying days. Far from the popular misconception, also often laid at
the feet of the poorest in our society, it isn't a parasite. Rather,
it knows how to 'lean', how to embrace, entwine, mutually strengthen,
and, if it does appear to pull down, then it is only revealing an
inherent weakness not creating the weakness itself. Like us, it
returns even if damaged or generally foolhardy attempts have been
made to restrict its increase.
Its heart-shaped
leaves speak of love, constancy, and protection, an old British name
for the plant being 'Lovestone'. Its spiral growth, linked to star
constellations and ever-flowing life-force, provides shelter and
hibernation space, food, and a pollen source for a wide range of
birds, animals, and insects ~ notably food for the caterpillars of
holly blue and red admiral butterflies and double-striped pug,
swallow-tailed, and yellow-barred brindle moths, together with winter
shelter for butterflies such as small tortoiseshell, peacock, painted
lady, comma, and brimstone (5). Even their names are a poem and a prayer.
In the autumn the adult plants, which can be identified by their
less-lobed leaves, produce flowers at a time when flowers are so
scarce, to the benefit of wasps, flies, hoverflies, bees, bumblebees,
butterflies, and the beautiful ivy bee, colletes hederae,
which appears in synchronicity with the growth of ivy
and relies almost
specifically on its tiny blooms. Indeed,
I spent many happy hours last autumn entranced and as delighted as a
child in the good company of roadside ivy and surrounded by clouds of
butterflies and bees. All the photos here were taken during those times of ivy~bliss. I was
often much later home than I had intended. I didn't care. My
friend, Colin the Bee-keeper, told me that honey made from ivy-pollen
is horrible to eat, and that made me smile although I still long to
taste some, just to see.
 |
| September 2016 ~ what lovely pollen pantaloons! |
When
the flowers have ended, green and then black berries appear ~
unobtrusive, calorie rich, often over-looked, and offering a
much needed larder for song thrush, mistle thrush, redwing,
blackbird, robin, and blackcap, at a time when the brazen berries of
hawthorn and rowan are long gone. It matters that the berries appear
in November and yet are often not eaten until the depths of winter
cold. They are saved, they are needed, and they are special. Like
fairytales for our spirit, they are a store of sustenance, this time
for the bodies of our feathered kin. There is no rush to consume them.
They have been there forever and will be there when needed, unless
they are tamed or burned. I can not imagine that happening to either;
both are far too subversive for that.
 |
| January 2017 |
The folklore of ivy
is rich and ancient, both in this land and in others. In Ancient Rome
it was considered a symbol of intellectual achievement and Druids too
were said to wrap ivy around their heads to represent clarity of
thought. An interesting paradox perhaps when the plant is also, being
sacred to the notoriously wild-living gods Dionysus and Bacchus,
associated with over-indulgence and intoxication. Perhaps, rather
than dry intellect in the form of logic, it brings the intoxication
of creative inspiration. Its leaves did after all once form the
poet's crown ~ a different sort of 'intellect', a different realm of
thought. In writing this I can well see why ivy has become equated
with intoxication and madness. My mind, like an ivy helix, has become
entwined and attached to so many thoughts and memories; of moments in
the wilderness, of bees and summer bliss, of loved ones who have
died, the urgency of finding the right words, the sinking into
darkness and despair; all have tendrils entwined with the folkloric
and metaphoric magic of ivy.
Returning to
drunkenness; in Europe an 'alepole', a branch covered in ivy leaves,
revealed the presence of a public house selling wine with early
herbalists believing ivy to be cure for drunkenness and drinking from
an ivy wood bowl to relieve the effects of bad wine. Culpeper states
that, “it is an enemy to the nerves and sinews, being much taken
inwardly, but very helpful to them when outwardly applied.”(4, p. 104) He
recommends the flowers, leaves, and berries being taken, often in red
wine, as a cure for anything from the plague to a stitch. He also
recommends and decoction of the leaves mixed with rosewater and Oil
of Roses as a cure for obstinate headaches when applied to the
temples. These days the internal use of ivy is not recommended, as
much of the plant is toxic, but the leaves can be helpful when
applied as a poultice to ulcers, boils, and abscesses. Always ivy
likes to involve herself with the places that many of us shy away
from, the places where we might fester, fall, or fail.
 |
| Wasp on ivy, September 2016 |
As for the Greek
god, Dionysus, so woven in with ivy; he was said to represent the
juice of life, the sap-blood in nature, just as ivy provides through
the winter, and so lavish 'orgias',
no doubt involving much drunkenness, were held in his honour.
Interestingly these were popular amongst women and were disliked by
men, who often tried to spy
on their activities. There is
something so intrinsically
of the wild
feminine in these unboundaried territories,
just as there is in the dark,
disordered depths of ivy bushes; ivy being so often linked
with femininity
~ the 'Ivy Queen'
with her brazenly-berried
'Holly King' (although of
course it is the female holly bushes who bear the berries).
English professor and
collector of carols, Edith Rickert (1871 – 1938), says that holly
and ivy carols, dating from the 1400s and earlier, often contain
debates about the relative merits of men and women, with holly
generally being thought superior! (9) In
Athens, against their husbands' resistance, female followers of
Dionysus took to the hills wearing fawn skins and ivy crowns and
danced by torchlight to the pipe and drum (21). There is something of
madness, of lunacy, in the feminine and in the dark
twining of her ivy sister. Walter
Friedrich Otto writes that, “the
god-intoxicated celebrants draw milk and honey from the streams. They
strike rocks with the thyrsus, and water gushes forth. They lower the
thyrsus to the earth, and a spring of wine bubbles up. If they want
milk, they scratch up the ground with their fingers and draw up the
milky fluid. Honey trickles down from the thyrsus made of the wood of
the ivy, they gird themselves with snakes and give suck to fawns and
wolf cubs as if they were infants at the breast. Fire does not burn
them. No weapon of iron can wound them, and the snakes harmlessly
lick up the sweat from their heated cheeks. Fierce bulls fall to the
ground, victims to numberless, tearing female hands, and sturdy trees
are torn up by the roots with their combined efforts”(24),
a similar accusation to that levelled at ivy herself!
The
female, the snake, and the ivy; all complicit in destroying the
Garden, or some would say in bringing it truly to life.
That
ivy is particularly bound up with Woman
is also found in our own folklore. In
some places, the last sheaf of the harvest was gathered up, bound
with ivy, and this 'Ivy Girl' would be kept over the winter to ensure
prosperous growth in the coming year. It
is also
said to be a bringer of good luck, particularly for women, and a girl
carrying ivy in her pockets was likely to soon come upon the man who
was destined to become her husband, or dream
of him if
ivy were placed under her pillow. Both these things seem
to be
said of so many plants that I imagine
young women walked around looking like hedges! Nevertheless, ivy
magic is so profoundly enmeshed with that of love. In some versions
of the ancient tale of 'Tristan and Iseult', which
became popular in the Twelfth Century, the
lovers die and
an
ivy vine grows from each
of
their graves, inching
across the soil one towards the other, until they twine together.
These tendrils are repeatedly
cut but always regrow and reconnect; a powerful symbol of love even
in death.
This
depth and antiquity
of meaning
makes it even more shocking that 'ivy' is one of the words now
removed from 'The Oxford Junior Dictionary', along with catkin,
brook, acorn, buttercup, blackberry, cowslip, cygnet, conker, holly, and mistletoe (3, p.106), as 'no longer holding any relevance for modern childhood'. So
many seemingly evergreen words of wonder and connection lost to our children, unless we cast
our own enchantment over them. As
Sara Maitland writes in 'Gossip from the Forest', these words, like
fairy stories, belong to an 'older forest'. Ivy
and fairytales have a lot in common; both are “magical and generous
and dark and terrible”(3, p.106), or should be. Ivy, the creator and
destroyer, supposed puller down of walls and trees and haven for
delicate wings and hungry mouths, shelterer of the vulnerable and the outcast, the dark goddess made evergreen and
womb of life in the bleak of winter white. If we let her she can
re-enchant the wayside world, and us with it.
And one last aside,
an extra blessing for my day, is the memory of my dad telling me the
tale of the time that he and his friend, Stan Satch, put a worm down
the back of their friend, Ivy's dress at school. I
imagine that they had no idea what they were tangling with!
References:
1) 'Findings',
Kathleen Jamie, Sort of Books, 2005.
2) 'The Gardener's
Book of Weeds', Mea Allan, Macdonald and Jane's, London, 1978.
3) 'Gossip from the
Forest: the Tangled Roots of Our Forests and Fairytales', Sara
Maitland, Granta, 2012.
4) 'Culpeper's
Colour Herbal', ed. David Potterton, W. Foulsham & Company
Limited, 1983.
5)
https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/gardening-blog/2015/feb/19/english-ivy-berry-good-for-birds
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