Today felt like spring and I spent most of it in the garden, tidying up, transplanting seedlings and admiring the spring flowers.
No social distancing was necessary between me and nature, which is just as well, as the robins kept breaking the 2 metre rule, hopping around my feet in search of worms.
And now I feel so much better after a day outside!
Snowdrops punctuate the January gloom.
Each year I am lifted by
this ordinary miracle.
I wrote this a few years ago. This year the snowdrops are even more welcome than usual.
No need to remember a technique,
fire up an app
or take a class.
Just go into the garden
and do what needs to be done.
A bit of weeding,
tidying the greenhouse,
watering tomatoes and cucumbers,
(there is always something
that needs attention).
Simply do the work,
at its own pace.
When the time is right,
find a spot to rest,
perhaps with a cup of tea.
Thoughts come,
(summer fresh butterflies dance between flowers)
thoughts go,
(there are a lot of dewy cobwebs around)
thoughts come,
(the asters are starting to flower)
thoughts go,
(I can still hear the swallows).
Dawn chorus, courtesy of the birds outside my bedroom window at 5am.
I sip my first cup of tea
surrounded by birdsong
as bees breakfast on the columbines.
Now that warmer weather has arrived, I have started having breakfast outside in the garden instead of mindlessly slumping on the sofa in front of breakfast TV news.
We’ve had a run of lovely mornings; blue sky, sunshine, fresh cool morning air.
I find this so calming. The immersion in nature relaxing my body and mind. The felt sense of my belonging, my need for this outdoor world.
I resolve, even when the weather is bad and I have breakfast indoors, to stay away from the morning TV news with all its negativity and trivia, telling me things I don’t need to know, ignoring the things I consider to be important. It gives me the impression that the world is a dangerous place, when just outside my window the world itself is telling me a different story. It sends me into my day with a sense of unease.
There is news in the garden too, much of it in a language I barely understand, passed on in song or bee-dance. Some of it is every bit as sensational as the TV news, tales of life and death. Did the baby blackbirds in the nest in the hedge make it through the night? (its awfully quiet in there). Did the deer eat my broad bean plants? There are stories of growth, news of the flowers most ripe with nectar and pollen, of turf wars between the robins.
Out here there is no clock in the corner of the screen hurrying along the minutes, so I linger, then sit down to work a little later than I planned. I take indoors with me a sense of calm that permeates my day.
What are your morning routines? Do they make you happy?
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May rushes on,
a juggernaut of growth,
an expansion into summer fullness.
May says
Pay attention to every moment
or I will slip through your fingers.
The robin in the holly tree
pours liquid song
into my ears.
I walked, insignificant beneath
giant eucalyptus,
peeling bark hanging in strings,
revealing subtle pinks,
oranges, greys.
Through tree fern gullys, tracery of
fronds filtering the sun,
shady green, dappled.
And everywhere, birds flitted,
colourful, exotic to my eyes.
The parched fallen gum leaves
crackled beneath my feet.
I was almost, but not quite, lost,
weary after hours of walking,
but now heading in the direction
of home.
My head was full of colours and sounds,
the smell of eucalyptus
welcome in my nostrils.
And then, a familiar call,
a stirring in the trees ahead,
the sense of being watched
a glimpse of movement,
and suddenly I was surrounded
by black cockatoos.
I stopped in wonder,
in awe.
I must have spent an hour
watching, camera clicking
while they chatted and pecked
and clambered around the branches.
They knew I was there.
They didn’t care.
I was the one who was
blessed by our meeting.
The sun streams onto my desk
distracting me with an open invitation.
I wander outside into the crisp
freshness of September
(I really should be working)
air cool, sun warm,
what a delicious combination.
I stroll, and admire the flowers.
This year’s robins practice their trills
and chase each other around the garden
(I should be working, really)
Dewy cobwebs sparkle.
The Chinese lanterns glow
like orange setting suns.
(Should I really be working?)
I have all the time in the world
to work,
long years of it left,
but this one moment of early autumn,
this particular combination of weather
and flowers and birdsong
will never happen again in
exactly the same way.
So I savour it.
Savouring the end of summer
among the last blooms of
thrift and sea campion,
the cries of unseen kittiwakes,
clouds of swallows and martins
and the arrow-straight splashing dives of gannets.
It’s that time of year when every bit of warm sunshine is savoured. The air is cooler now, the wind is blowing from the north, but out of the wind the sun is still hot. We sat in the sun on the Mull of Galloway, sharing the end of summer with the birds. Soon they will be leaving, the kittiwakes out to sea, the swallows, house martins and gannets heading south for warmer climes. A day to remember, sunshine,warmth and memories to light us through the winter darkness ahead.
Life in the Fresh Air 