Good advice comes in a letter - “Humankind cannot bear very much reality.”

It was the time of the Alexanders... All the Gems, the highs, the lows - the sun shines a little more, and a warm wind blows

Hedgerow Aroma: Alexanders - botanical name Smyrnium olasutrum

It was the time of the Alexanders - This is a sentence that keeps returning itself to me. I wake, and it’s written itself upon my pillow. It was the time... What time? When the sun is new and joyous. When our eyes swim in pools of golden green. When the world grows brave and shows itself again. I’m drifting and strolling with self-seeding annuals and don’t want May to end. I love how they put themselves in the perfect place, like the Californian Poppies that grow through stone and cement. I know you are reading this in June, but let’s stop and hold on, to this the time between spring and summer, THIS TIME when light pours onto the forest floor, before the canopy blooms. The time of the Alexanders.

I only recently learned the name of this fresh smelling hedgerow plant. What did I think of it before - walking by, full of thoughts, not noticing the invigorating scent - just that common weed that makes the lanes narrow. The plant is edible and up until a few hundred years ago the whole plant was eaten, from to root to seed. I’ve been nibbling on the seeds and leaves as I go. Very refreshing, like lovage and parsley and celery. It fell out of favour in the 18th Century with the mass production of celery. In Turkey the young shoots and leave are eaten with yogurt and in salads. The tubers are dug up in winter when considered at their best and eat raw or cooked.

In early May mornings, I have been walking the quiet lanes from St Merryn village down to Constantine Bay. I am noticing the soft and bursting beauty of the hedges. It started in late April, when winter’s grip let go and the earth woke up. It started with the Alexanders. Walking with friends to the beach - we were walking from Winter into Spring. Or was it Spring into Summer? We walked all the way down to Tregirls bay and across to Padstow to the Prideaux Walled Garden. It was a fast walk for me, partly because my sister-in-law has wonderful long legs but, as I realised on arrival, she just couldn’t wait for me to see it. And we must go back soon because all of those canes will be filled with sweet peas.

Exmoor 2019: Tomato Juice Boy. It makes me smile to remember him drinking tomato juice. He was such an old soul.

I know what all these symbols of Spring/Summer say to me - it was the time of the Alexanders, just after James was laid to rest, when he was given back to Mother Nature - the most earth shattering and yet beautiful time, the time when I had to summon the greatest strength, taking vigour from the reawakening Earth - walking amongst Bluebells and Campion, allowing the warmer months to hold me and carry me along.

Welcome Readers, new and old. I wrote all this months ago and now as I edit I am on day 14 of being back in my home after a year away. The garden has grown up into a wild tangle; a riot of textures and colour jostling for their space. I’m trying not to look at exploding suitcases and boxes, just taking out what I need and getting on with life, visiting Dad when I can - he likes coming here for dinner twice a week. He is now in a bigger room with an incredible view of the whole town. He is settled. But I cannot put clothes into my drawers. What is going on here? I am in a tug of war with the ever-present whisper and tingle of distant dreams and fantasies of being a nomad, disappearing with my life in one bag VERSUS the homemaker in me who loves to nest and collect stuff. (I’d forgotten how much I love charity shops and Wadebridge has five.)

Malc n Merv enjoying the garden at St Breock - they crimped many a pasty together in the early hours. It’s so brilliant having Dad in Wadebridge. I pop in between gardens to have my lunch with him, he’s usually got a visitor.

If you are here, if you got this far, you’ve managed to stop the race of the day and open this email. I applaud you, even if you do what I do: open it, read half a sentence with one eye on the next tab and then— you’re gone. Something grabs you. At the mercy of algorithms, BBC Sounds, Amazon, Gmail… You’re probably juggling an unrealistic list, tuned into pings and apps. So I really can’t imagine you have time for this. I’ve started reading 6 Substacks this week, not finished one. And it’s not because the writing is bad. No. Smartphones have made me stupid. They have completely screwed up the little concentration I had. All that data and no room in my head to put it. But please, don’t go just yet, because I need you; stay a moment with me, now, just stop, get a cup of tea and just breathe in— and all the way out. Three deep breaths and the world is a different place. We can stay here, let the words come and float by like clouds; don’t even try to take them all in, just go with the sound and feel, rather than worrying about meaning.

I’ve spent far too much time concerned with MEANING. Look at plants instead, they just get on with growing. I cannot stop gardening - in work and out. Walking down the path for the first time, throat rigid, eyes brimming, what a shock - plants doubled/trippled in size. Walking into the house - shaking, into James’ room, his animal print wallpaper gone - tears in a torrent - but then back out to the garden, LIFE bursting… I am seeking beings to nurture, feeding my roses and birds, still here, Loving Loss and forget-me-nots, (they have now faded, seeds are drying on the tips). My home still here, I am still James’ Mum.

I am sharing a snippet from a wonderful letter I received from one of my readers. Thank you, everyone for all your heartfelt messages. When I start telling myself I am wasting my time, I need to read them. Thank you Ammaprema Grace

“Your experiences resonate with so many people’s loss , and the honesty and depth of the gifts that run through you are absolutely awesome and I write this as a very discriminating reader. Your writing and the stories of your life and how you feel have a rare quality that is so needed at this time. James lives on through you.”

“…write for yourself, for James and share or not… but keep doing it. Weep for him for yourself whatever and share or not. Some level of your being chose this challenging path, you change, and through your wisdom and your ability to engage fully with emotions both painful and pleasurable, deep in your off planet reality, you and James laugh and enjoy the game of life and the gifts of your shared reality. Past present and future.”

Some people might struggle to believe that some level of their being chose this path of loss and pain. But believing this helps me to cope with losing my son. This is my path and I’ve got to make my way along it. Grief changes you, puts wise layers upon you. Equips you. This newsletter is not for everyone. Who wants to linger on loss? But for some of us, living with absence is a daily reality and it is a mountain to climb. Finding ways, finding joy, is our mission and it makes for an emotionally rich life. It might not be a person you have lost. It might be a part of yourself, or a dream you know will never come to true. You might live knowing deep down that your soul wishes to be elsewhere - living in Tuscany or Paris. There’s a whisper of doubt that you are not living your lift quite right… It’s time to accept the whisper and tingle of dreams will always be there. This is just the messy condition of being a human in 2025.

With gratitude in mind, I’m incredibly grateful to the person who has read my manuscript twice now. Back in February, thinking of leaving Tresco, struggling with the tiny accommodation and no space to write, I received another wonderful letter from my old tutor at Bath Spa Uni, reminding me, YES, you can write, and write well, keep going, you have a book here. Validation - TICK. He’s read the recent draft of my manuscript. It’s too long. I got carried away. Going on about James. I was supposed to be trimming it, but it grew and it grew - to a 138’000 words. Every time I tried to write an ending I started to cry so I kept tapping away like I was digging my way out. I didn’t want the story of James to end.

I found a way. At the end of the book I described the moment I gave birth to him. I ended with a beginning. But, and I know he’s right, if I don’t want literary agents to run for their lives, I must cut the word count by half. Also he suggests - rewrite it chronologically. One thing after another. Simple. Oh what relief. Instruction feels good. I’ve always been a rebel, but I’m giving it up. Just tell me what to do, I beg you! So, THE BOOK, it’s got to be short and bitter sweet. Digestible. Jessica - it needs a narrative. I have a vision, a book that is a statement of love and hope and finding ways. Not long and over loading.

Anthriscus sylvestris

Aquilegia ‘Nora Barlow’

If I want people to read This Boy, I’ve got to go easy on them. I am used to this loss. I’ve built a new self from it. It’s my normal now, my home of horrors that I paint over daily, growing pretty plants and pouring love into the earth. My love of plants saves me every day. It’s not complicated. It’s pure WILL TO SURVIVE. Where there is pain, there is also joy. Where there is death there is life. But I can’t give people the house of horrors. Not the whole house. All they need is a window - just to see the breathtaking light of James, shining on and on - a warm steady glow from within. To see the resilience and the pride. To see that life really does have to be this way. We go wrong when believe we can avoid pain and be happy all the time. Avoidance causes fear and anxiety - a false belief that we can control and prevent. Let’s teach children to know that they are strong and can deal with anything, rather than lead them into a life of fear.

As for a readable narrative, yes - a true reflection of trauma would present itself in a mangled, tangled web of repetition. But reality is not a narrative. Readers don’t want the corners of dust and the old socks that don’t match. You don’t need the monsters under the bed, gut wrenching chats with doctors and every bleep on the hospital ward. You just need the light that grows from the dark.

In his encouraging letter, my tutor quoted T.S Eliot: “Humankind cannot bear very much reality.”

So that’s the thing with reading - we don’t actually want reality, not fully. We want to think it’s reality. We want the thrilling and entire ride of a life - as a story, but life as a narrative. Something sewn up. The truth - that life is never easy, never finished, never neat - we don’t want that so much. Another re-write beckons.

I will now begin again, another re-write, starting with James’ birth, I’ve been playing with openings:

In the beginning there was one James. And then there was two. And then there was one again.

James, James, James. The sound of that name means greatness. It’s a name with power. It’s monosyllabic but everlasting, smooth and rich. And now there are millions of James’s - as though James no.2 was too big for his body and had to be made of more than one thing, something else, something free and wild and electric, something that soars and drifts in the clouds and runs in the rivers. He is all the particles, cells and spirits.

When I was born - there was James - James No.1, my brother, then three years old. He was there to adore my brand-newness and cuteness, and be irritated by me. He is always here for me, crying for me, there for diagnosis, prognosis, hospice, always here for me. When you are childless, you must look around and ask - where is the love? Who will I grow old with? (Find it, cherish it.) For 36 years there was one James; full of love, and so bloody funny. He has a ridiculously infectious giggle. I admire his energy. I remember as kids - he just didn’t stop. He’s only ever known serious hard work. We are different in many ways but we are both pacifists. We just want people to get on and be nice and that’s like Dad in St Breock Home, he walks around all day, checking everyone is alright. We’d be useless in a war. While I think too much, James gets shit done. And that’s what James' no.2 was like. So James 1 became Big James, and no.2 became Baby James.

Under my skin. For the first nine months, as magic, and damn right cheeky-cleverness came to life, before he became Baby James, he was known as Baby Gem. I was a walking miracle, growing a human, (a boy). And James was the treasure, a hidden gem, a rosette of emerald. I named my bump after a lettuce; a thing unfurled. “Baby Gemmmmm,” I called to him, “Baby Gem, I love you. Baby Gem, kick me once if you’re a boy, twice if you’re a girl…” One kick came — long pause — and then another. I wanted a girl. A girl would be easier. A boy would be chaos. I would call her Rose. That was settled. Baby Gem was al mine, cocooned in me, closed tight, building cells, growing a heart and spine, sweet smelling skin, growing, growing… It was as if I’d been alone all my life, and now my heart was beating for two.

The Birth Plan That Came To Nothing: On the 28th December 2017, two days overdue, finishing a Sunday roast in the St Kew Inn, a low wave came, a dull ache. Twenty minutes later, driving back to town, a pain erupted, a pain so strong that surely it could shatter every bone in my spine. It was nearly 4 pm. No time to build a pain threshold. Plans of lighting candles, measuring minutes— gone. After the 30 minute drive to the birthing centre, my seat suddenly soaked, I crawled from my puddled upholstery on hands and knees through the main entrance. At 6.30 pm, he shot out of me like a rocket. There was no time to waste, he had a whole world to turn upside down. A BOY! I trembled for days, weeks, stunned, just looking at this strange man squashed into a tiny body. We went through every boy name but only James would do. For a long time he was only content in my arms. I remember thinking, Who are you?

From the start I knew he’d been here before. I could sense his wisdom. I felt suddenly so stupid. He’d made an idiot of me. I’d read several books on getting him out of me, but not one on how to look after him. I assumed it would come naturally but I’d never felt so clueless. When I recall the shocking and sudden absence of confidence my throat thickens, tears come. WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING? SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME, I DO NOT HAVE A CLUE. I remember the relief I felt when my best friend confirmed, from experience, she knew, You’ve got a tricky baby there, she said. Easily overwhelmed. Sensitive. Maybe I knew, somehow, deep down, he didn’t belong to me, but to a far greater realm, beyond human. (And of course, people just get fucking brain tumours.)

Every minute was adventure.

Now, jumping as I do, because distraction is my thing. In times of discomfort I cannot stay here; the pull of novelty catches me, branches snagged by a racing river, tide coming in. Life is a torrent dragging me on, up stream searching for pools of light in the murky green. I am driftwood, floating, hollowed by sun and salt, waiting for the moon to let the ocean go…Where was I? Jumping forward from that day of a new life - James no.2 arriving into the world - zooming over a life time of six and half years, to a time in early Summer 2021 when a piece of land catches my eye and grabs my heart. I’d long forgotten the name Baby Gem:

May 2021 - I am walking to my son’s grave. He’s been here less than two months. I’ve quickly grown a love/hate relationship with this new dog walk. It’s a mix of quiet twisting lanes with high hedges now jeweled with bluebells and wild garlic. The second half of the loop is through a winding path through ancient woodland. The hellebores have gone to ground. The daffodils are fading and the foxgloves are rising. Now the trees are in full bloom, buds have opened, the canopy is heavy.

On the lane as it starts the climb towards the church, I notice someone has bought a small patch of land, maybe one acre. There is gentle change going on. I can sense the joy, the labour of love. Golden columns of light find the woodland carpet. There is a stream, jostling through, running down the middle like a child busy at play. One side of the stream sits at the base of a steep bank. On the other side ferns and other water loving plants - Lilies, and Willow. A shepherd’s hut tucked into a corner, a fire pit, a hammock, a log pile, and a dead hedge was slowly growing, being added to. (In case you haven’t come across this, it’s the method of using dead/cut branches, prunings and twigs to create a barrier, lying them horizontally between stakes/canes thereby recycling garden waste and creating shelter for wildlife. Google to see some images. Very rustic but I think they look great.)

The new owner has also planted a hedge row of mixed species like crab apple and hawthorn, a rambling rose. Some bamboo too. Rain water is being harvested. It’s all so magical and natural and I can’t crane my neck any further over the gate. Then standing back, I see it, the sign - nailed to the gate there is a slice of a tree trunk. On it has been carved - “Little Gem”. Oh my goodness, it all came back - the forgotten memory of my very own Baby Gem, the magic that was once inside me, I read it again and again, Little Gem, Little Gem. And then, in that same second a pair of Blue Jays squawked from the other side of the stream. There is that magic again. It flies right into me, out from the sparkling stream and the new feathery foliage.

I’ve since met the owner. One day he arrived as I was being nosy. His mother passed away and left him some money. He is not permitted to live on the land but it is special playground for him to be the memory of his mother. I wanted to tell him about my Baby Gem. Maybe one day I will.

Baby Gem, you’ve come back to me.