It occurred to me this morning, as I looked out at my garden, that I feel three-dimensional here.
While travelling, I was not myself in many respects, just a tourist passing through, like the narrator of Apirana Taylor’s short story “The Red Sari”. He sits in gridlocked traffic in the bubble of a taxi, sees a jet rising away from it all above him, thinks of his air-conditioned hotel and feels a sense of relief that he can escape before long.
This is a good time of year to be at home, with time to read thoughtfully and to reflect. Lemon and ginger tea steams beside me on a Portuguese cork-and-tile coaster. From my study window, I can see my own little bluebell wood (growing under a native beech):
If I look to my left, I can see these Iceland poppies:
For the bees I let the borage grow wherever it appears. It sprawls over the lawn so that I have to hold it back with garden forks while I mow (in the evening after the bees have gone). The bees also enjoy the rosemary, the forget-me-nots, the cherry blossom and the hebe:
The apple blossom is my favourite for its beauty. This little tree also produces a great many sturmer apples:
The diversity of exotics and natives is joyful and the garden is full of “volunteers” and rescued plants. My role in this is to let things be and watch to see what develops. No spraying, I weed by hand when necessary, and nurture the surprises like these violas which pop up between the paving stones.
There is constant bird-song. Yesterday, two ducks visited. One waded, up to its knees, in the grass (since mown) while the other peered over the edge of the roof.
They were just passing through, but I would like to think I’m here to stay, at least for a while.