Chuwl (Hebrew: to dance in a whirl)

Friday evening, full moon waning, the haar cleared, returning the hills to the town.  Sun peeped through and a cooling breeze blew the last ghostly wisps up river.  Perfect conditions for cutting the hedge. 

Several years ago, I bought a cordless hedge trimmer, advertised as compact and light for ladies to use.  It is.  I wield it, in lady-like fashion, in smoothly swooping arabesques, rounding the hedge into a buxom belly-dancer. 

The new Maytime growth is long and lush, feather-soft and falls away like a dance in seven veils.  Surrendering, I become the dance.  Flowing, it begins.  Inside the garden, setting the height to follow.  Staccato at the wall of the house, chopping stragglers, wall flowers, reluctant to join the dance.  Inevitably, that veil must fall, and on to the next.  The right side of the gate, careful not to stub the trimmer on the metal.  Can’t miss a beat.  Then out to the pavement for the grand finale, the last veils fall, the chakras balanced. 

Mischievous faces of ivy-leaf toadflax peeped out, growing up from a crack in the stone.  They love a seaward wall.  Those wandering sailors.  I made sure to hornpipe around them and their land ahoy gaze. 

The swoop and fall became a meditation.  I thought of all the things I wanted to let fall, and let them.  Negative thoughts, shoulds, have-tos, chaos of other people’s business lobbed at my doorstep like a grenade.  No.  I prefer lyrical dance, swooping in time with the breeze, letting go silently, silkily.   Release. Redeemed.

Stillness.

Dance over, the piper must be paid.  Sweeping up, bending and lifting the cuttings in giant plastic ‘hands’. I was surprised to feel a bit fitter this year.  Yoga works. 

And no longer desired the head of that BT guy.

On a silver platter.