An exploration of life, nature, creativity & tai chi
New snow blankets a wall
which is the summer home
of one of the garden slow worms.
And right now, somewhere deep
in hidden parts of the garden
slow worms are curled up,
hibernating.
Do they switch off like a computer
one cool day in autumn
and switch back on in spring,
unaware of the passing of time?
Or do they slumber,
conscious of the seeping cold,
burrowing further below rocks,
pulling leaves over like a duvet
before sinking deeper into winter sleep?
And do they dream?
This new painting was inspired by my garden, which was a sanctuary during the last lockdown.
The garden is not quite so inviting now in the wind and rain, but it’s still full of autumn colour and wildlife.
I hope this brings some colour and a memory of warm summer sun into your day!
It took a while to paint, I started at the beginning of September when these colourful flowers were still blooming, and finished last week. It got interrupted by a painting of pikachu for my nephew.
Pikachu is on his way to New Zealand. He’s taking his time, I think the post is slow because of the pandemic. I’m hoping he hasn’t got lost and that my nephew likes him when he finally arrives!
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).
I am slipping between seasons.
I can sense the afterglow of summer; flowers are blooming, the sun is still warm on my face. Then in another moment I am tumbling towards winter.
The darkness draws me forward.
There is still time after work to dodge the rain showers and squeeze in a walk to the estuary, yet by the time I have finished my evening meal there is blackness outside the window.
Winter guests are arriving along with the first frosts. The geese are back and countless small birds enliven the garden with their flittering flocks. I’m still waiting for a glimpse of redwing, or fieldfare. Tasty berries await their return.
Sometimes it’s still just about warm enough to take my cup of tea to the bench in the front garden, but I spend less time there now.
Of course, there is still work to do outside, weeding and pruning and such, which will build up body heat and make time spent outside feel good. But the mooching, the gazing, the simply being, the doing nothing, the outdoor tai chi practice; the season for all that is ebbing away.
And so the true owners of the garden come to the fore. The blackbirds, robins, wrens, dunnocks, tits, goldcrests, song thrushes, the mice and voles, the squirrels, the spiders and slugs, snails and countless invertebrates. All those beings who spend the entire of the day and the night outside, however cold or wet or grey it gets.
I watch a blackbird probing the lawn for insects and I suddenly realise that the garden belongs to all of them, not to me. They depend on it for survival, I just appear outside occasionally and they watch me with caution until I am gone.
The darkness approaches with relentless speed.
I fight it, just like every year. I wish it wasn’t happening. I dread the clocks changing, darkness before I even leave the office.
I’m not sure when this started. As a child winter and dark evenings just happened, that was just how life was. It didn’t bother me at all.
The winter started with our annual end of October half term Lake District family holiday, an old cottage with no central heating, roasting the chestnuts that we collected in the woods over the open fire, cold bedrooms, huddling under the sheets with hot water bottles. Probably my favourite holiday of the year. Back home, the house was usually warm, and the dark months were punctuated by brightness: Halloween, bonfire night, Christmas.
And I’ve been wondering when I learned to dislike the darkness that comes with winter, the short days, the endless grey and the damp cold.
A run of grey days can hang over me like a bad mood. Then, the sun comes out and everything is OK. Colours come to life. The world around me sparkles. This is perhaps not a good attitude to have developed given that I live in rainy, grey, beautiful north west England.
And yet. Every year there comes a point when I stop fighting the seasons, when I start to see the long dark evenings as something to treasure.
A space.
Often, there is not much to do. The working day is over. There are no little jobs to do in the garden, because it’s dark outside. I read. I binge watch tv programmes.
A little idea arrives in my head, about seasons and the approaching darkness. I go outside and reacquaint myself with the stars. Back inside it’s warm. I sit down and I start writing.
We are just at the beginning. There are months of this creative, enveloping darkness ahead. I could choose to welcome it.
What do dark evenings and approaching winter mean to you?
As you may know if you’ve been reading this blog recently, there is news in the garden too. And usually it’s more interesting than the actual news.
Today’s breaking garden news, baby slow worms, curled like bootlaces under some old roof tiles. So small! I see adult slow worms in the garden occasionally, but never baby ones.
Here is one, it’s not a great photo, I was tempted to poke it so it unfurled, but the slow worm would not have liked that, so I didn’t!
I plant seeds and tidy the greenhouse
as three slow worms bask peacefully
in the sun.
I love slow worms, and it makes me so happy to know that I share my garden with them. They look like little copper coloured snakes, but are actually legless lizards. One lives in the raspberry bed, one in a hole in the patio and one in the wall near the woodshed. There are probably more, I just haven’t spotted them yet.
Life in the Fresh Air 