A Loveliness of Ladybirds
hibernation + permeability of the soul
Sitting at my desk in the glow of a late autumn afternoon on the farm. The window in my alcove office has framed this view of the sunset for over 130 years.
Today, its cracked panes are adorned by a loveliness of ladybirds.
Some folks might squirm at the thought of their home invaded by a hoard of tiny armoured creatures . . . But for me, ladybirds bring nothing but joy, even as they stream into my window panes.
They are my allies and companions in the garden; to provide refuge and safety through their winter sleep is a gift.
It makes me think about the pleasures of living in a draughty old house, and the tender parts of ourselves we will towards impermeability.
Our instinct is to lock both our abodes and our selves up tight. To tuck away our tender bits, protect them from the cold.
I wonder though, what is lost in this buttoning up, this hoarding of armaments, this building of walls?
What of breath? Osmosis? Of the cycling tide of ideas, the coming and going?
What if we could shift our perspective surrounding the thoughts and souls that might filter in through these nooks and crannies in the board and batten of our spirits?
What might tuck in and find a warm place to hibernate in the space beneath our ribs, nestled against our heart?
What might reemerge in the cool sun of spring and how might it be changed?
How might we be changed by the holding of something not of ourselves? Without judgement or expectation, but maybe awe or wonder or curiosity or grace?
Slowness, for me, is a way to combat calcification of those tender, permeable spaces of the soul.
Our driving force as a culture seems to be marching towards safety as the holy grail of self-actualization.
But I don’t want to be safe. I want to be whole.
Run from what's comfortable. Forget safety. Live where you fear to live. Destroy your reputation. Be notorious. - Rumi
Wholeness requires drawing a larger circle around ourselves, encompassing all the flotsam we’d rather keep out; what irritates, what causes pain, what might even bring us to our knees.
Because maybe, just maybe, these walls and windows of the soul are illusions. Barriers in our stories only.
And maybe, the true pain comes when we refuse to fling them open to the crisp autumn air, stop up the gaps to keep the loveliness on that side of the line, deny others the warmth and comfort of our tides of breath and blood.
Most of us, in our too fast, quick to judgement, drunk on outrage, safety obsessed world, don’t have the time or energy to luxuriate in our own curiosity.
To marvel over our atmospheric skin, boundary in name only.
You know, I learned recently that stress is contagious. Cortisol seeps from our skin, evaporates into the flesh of those we allow near. How terrible and miraculous is that?
We are already porous, the world around us slipping within and without. Why will ourselves otherwise?
We long for connection, but everywhere we turn we draw tighter and tighter circles of self.
In the backwoods of our farm, the soil secrets a thriving web of oyster mushroom mycelium, enveloping the roots of the cottonwood trees.
When the weather is just right, the elder cottonwoods explode into a flush of fragile fruiting bodies, reaching for the sky.
Before that, all that time, those mushrooms dissolved mineral and rock, touched fingertip to fingertip with the roots of the tree, trading and transmuting sun to sugar and rock to liquid gold.
The mycelium fan out, connecting root to rock and tree to tree, subterranean bodies to sky.
Tell me, where does mushroom end and tree begin?
Is the tiny plot of woods out my kitchen window a collection of individual organisms, separate and apart, boundaries delineated by hard and fast lines? Or something more?
I’d like to believe each of our internal landscapes is like that tiny copse of cottonwood trees.
And that maybe, if we allow ourselves to trust the truth of our internal expansiveness, we might find the courage to cultivate what is already there.
Allow the contradictory parts of ourselves to unfurl into one another, like crisp white sheets on the line in some beautiful dance against the sharp blue of an October sky.
That we might look for places where we can meet the world, fingertip to fingertip, nourish and be nourished by the richness of the world around us, offer up our tender spaces for some other soul to rest their head.
Are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life? - Mary Oliver
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Stacey Langford is a writer, renegade farmer and slow business mentor living and working in Canada’s Fraser Valley. In 2010 Stacey ditched her cubicle in the city to turn her attention homeward, farm and help others craft a simple life, from scratch.
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I help rebellious solopreneurs and creatives build businesses rooted in Slow Values. If you’re ready to step into your own Slow Life and finally claim your calling, let’s chat!