It seems that there is a direct correlation between how messy my workshop is and how depressed I feel. I have often yearned for an unmessy workshop - convinced that then everything in my life would be ok (and of course I would then also, miraculously, be amazingly well organised with my time and workload).

So I have great delight in sharing the fact that parts of my workshop are currently a real mess and yet I feel thrilled by it.

Swallows are nesting in the roof beams and there are four baby swallows making one heck of a racket. Swallow parents are in and out every 30 seconds or so feeding. All are totally unbothered by my bandsaw, drills or hammering of chisels.

Any moans about how busy it can be for us on the farm are firmly put into context by seeing the demands on the swallow parents by their four very large babies.

And I have had to remove all items from underneath the nest until they fledge.

No matter what state of mind I'm in when I walk out into the garden on a sunny Sunday afternoon, at least one of my senses is lifted and brought to the fore. My breath catches as I hear the ocean sound shifting north in the changing wind and tide. At the same time my worry scanner is on, sensing garden demands. A plant here that's a little too dry, sprawling raspberries that have broken free, artichokes colonized by ants. Joy and worry walk with me in the garden. Clearly, worry would like joy to butt out and mind its own business.

Now the sunlight reveals a late-summer slant in the colors it brings out on the zucchini leaves, matched immediately - if not preceded by - the slightly melancholic feeling tone of seasonal change. The wind blows a neighborhood argument in my direction, a dance of vicious words that trails off to be hidden in the ocean. A kaleidoscope of memories arises and focuses on the sound of Sheila Chandra singing: "The ocean, the ocean, accepts all rivers".

Picture and poem for Alison and her extended family.

In my mirror,
birth and old age
sickness and death
reflect,
Sour and sweet
bitter and hot,
true sweet dew.

Into the four forms,
my body disintegrates,
earth and fire
water and wind;
emptiness.
But like the Buddha's kindness

I am everywhere.

Excerpt from a poem by Tsung tsai, translated by George Crane from Bones of the Master.

...and for all those who find themselves in extremity.