Fairwell, Elspeth

"So what is this human urge to garden - to fill our living space, no matter how small - with living plants; to embark on this passionate collaboration with nature, however seemingly inauspicious the circumstances?"

"She had a charming ability to be able to describe the commonplace and the rare with equal passion. But, possibly above her writing, was her gentle nature, her kind manner and an air of Englishness that was so charming."

A post about Elspeth Thompson should probably be posted on my Happy Turtle blog. But it just not feels right, because it goes beyond the sterile attributes of a CV. Elspeth Thompson, the much loved gardening and home writer, passed away at the end of March, taking her own life. I just found out. If you have ever read her books or her columns over the years, in The Guardian and The Sunday Telegraph, you know what an inspiration she was.

What very few people knew, few of us who read her books and admired her style and poise, was her drama with depression which eventually lead her to her passing.

Having suffered from depression myself, having recovered by the grace of Christ's extended hand, and thanks to my homeopath's assistance, and still chasing it away through prayer and the prayers of dear friends, and a personal, daily effort to shift the veil of black thoughts, I am both sorry and shaken. It is so difficult to explain how an otherwise perfect looking life can make someone so desperate, so miserable.

As I read of her passing, I thought of all the comments I did not post to her blog, and of all the comments and posts I do not write because I'm in a hurry. No time to be kind, loving, thoughtful, appreciative? How pathetic is that?

Reading some of the many tributes to her life (she was 48), I came across a post which included one of her favorite poems, posted on her blog in January:

I BELIEVE NOTHING

I believe nothing – what need

Surrounded as I am with marvels of what is,

This familiar room, books, shabby carpet on the floor,

Autumn yellow jasmine, chrysanthemums, my mother’s flower,

Earth-scent of memories, daily miracles,

Yet media-people ask, “Is there a God?”

What does the word mean

To the fish in his ocean, birds

In his skies, and stars?

I only know that when I turn in sleep

Into the invisible, it seems

I am upheld by love, and what seems is

Inexplicable here and now of joy and sorrow,

This inexhaustible, untidy world -

I would not have it otherwise.

Beautiful as the poem may be, it shows in the most revealing way the state of her sensitive heart. A life without God, beautiful as it may be, and rich, and acknowledged, leaves one with a bottomless black pit in their hearts, that no one can fill but God. I wish someone had shown this special lady the way out of the swirling black hole of depression. The way to Light. The way to God. May God rest her troubled soul, and bless her family with His eternal light.


Read more and appreciate Elspeth Thompson's work and inimmitable style in her website, blog and new blog.