Six am in the morning

The light is quickening now, the energy building daily and I confess I have stumbled to keep up. It is a familiar feeling, as I bring myself into balance with the ever-growing lighter mornings. Part of my nature – wellness journey is to live seasonally alongside the dark and the light, the ebb and the flow of the earth’s cycles. My hens at the allotment wake with the dawn and my morning routine in late Spring is a busy one; like the birds swooping back and forth feeding their young, every moment of daylight precious, every ray of warm sunlight a chance for growth to flourish as the soil warms and fully stirs.

I find some mornings the light is far ahead, and I struggle to keep up; it has swept the lingering darkness aside and arrives full of vitality and laughter as I gently emerge from my sleep and quietly step out to feed the waiting Blackbird. She comes every morning, a fledging, new to this world and still finding her way. She waits for the grapes I gently place under the garden bench so she can eat peacefully in the morning sun.

This morning I am on time, and I am packing my small rucksack for a walk across the local fields to the winding river and wild garlic which grows on its banks. Putting my warm flask into the bag, I reach for my boots and light jacket which I fill with sunflower seeds for any Robin who happens to land at my feet. Slipping out of my cottage I make my way towards the footpath, listening to an outburst of song from a hidden Wren.

For nature has come alive and there is much work to be done.

The window of growth, of rearing young, how the soil becomes warm to grow our food, is a short time in the cycle of our earth. I am always amazed at how quickly seeds germinate, how they seem to grow by centimetres each day, how they reach for the sun, the warmth and the nourishment they need.

As I reach the gate to the footpath I pause and notice how the grass is taller now, how it sways in the early morning breeze. Dandelions, bright and yellow open widely for passing Bees to forage and I look up to see the swoop of Sparrows as they fly energetically over my head.

So much energy, so much life.

Walking through the gate, I step out over the expanse of field, the feeling of space lifting my spirits as my morning, whirling thoughts quietly step aside and I am left with a feeling of peace as I become one with the land, and the soft breeze upon my face.

As I reach the woodland that takes me to the river I sense I am not alone. Looking up once again I see a Red Kite, gliding effortlessly against the sky. These majestic birds are rare where I live and I wonder who else has noticed the forked tail, the white markings and if they, like me are humbled to be part of the bird’s company for a short window of time. After a minute the moment is gone and I am alone once more, feeling the vibrant, strong energy left behind in the wind.

The woods are cool after the suns soft rays and my eyes adjust to the shady darkness. The trees are silent and yet I feel great comfort within their presence. I pause and lean against the great Oak whose ancient trunk is old and twisted. I can almost hear the secrets it has to say, the generations that have passed under it’s leaves. The laughter, the tears, and the quiet, solitary travellers. The Oak holds its stories of long ago, but I can feel the whispers of what was. Feel the brush of another age where planes did not roar overhead or motorbikes be heard from far away. If we look hard enough and stop to feel, we can sense a simpler past around us; the earth is full of footsteps, the echoes of those who came before us.

Leaving the old Oak behind I continue my way, following the footpath towards the river’s edge. I can hear the waterfall now, the forever flow of water tumbling down into the whirling pool below. Ducking underneath the branches of a Horse Chestnut Tree, I find myself next to the river herself and watch as the water matches the energy of Spring as it gushes over rocks and falls to the glistening pool below.

Sitting down on a nearby fallen tree trunk I take out my flask and lean against the Chestnut trunk, feeling held and grounded by the earth under my feet. As I take a sip of tea, I notice the Bluebells on the opposite bank and the smell of wild garlic.

I close my eyes and listen to the bird song, the river flowing to distant places and feel the rising energy of a new Spring Day.

Thank you for taking this gentle rest with me. I am humbled you have joined me.

If you would like to travel alongside for longer you are warmly invited to subscribe to receive my weekly free Nature’s Seasonal Letters.

For those who wish to journey deeper with me you are invited warmly to join my paid membership, ‘Beneath The Trees.’ Fortnightly personal letters sharing my journey of a slower rooted life and return to nature. I would be honoured to walk this path with you.

Seasonal Warmth to you all

Clare

The wind is cold as I walk alongside the winding, woodland path.

The sun shines bravely and, its warmth is felt briefly on my face before a gust of easterly wind extinguishes the soft, gentle rays, like a warm flame blown out leaving a raw, coldness behind.

The trail is on a hill, and I am surrounded by a covering of trees, and I notice how their buds have silently awoken with the promise of Spring. I glance below at the river meandering; quietly, peacefully through undisturbed and secret earth. Earth that belongs to sleeping foxes and badgers that wait for the soft fall of darkness and the moon to show them the way.

I pause to look down the valley, to be with the rivers gentle exhale as it quietly continues its journey. Alongside the water, vibrant leaves of Wild Garlic have emerged, their fresh, green growth pushing through the soil, making the air smell of wildness and damp, freshly squeezed earth. I smell garlic floating on the breeze and I think back to simpler times when villages would have rejoiced at the garlic and cooked on open fires.

I have walked this river for the last seven years and the leaves come up every March, a green blanket holding past secrets and future years to come. Their certainty of green renewal brings stability and hope in a world that is ever changing and shifting at our feet.

Looking up towards the trees I see I am not alone. A Buzzard perches, undeterred by my quiet presence as he surveys his kingdom, his world of rolling fields, woodland and vast, blue skies. I reflect on how he knows where the river goes, the places I cannot reach and do not know. Places where man has not stepped for years, small patches of untamed wildness left alone and at peace.

I continue my way, my boots sinking into the mud from the latest rainfall; rain that is soft and smells of fresh earth. Rain that waters the seeds, that gives them life. As I walk, I think of how nature quietly provides and how each season plays its part in the cycles of growth and renewal.

I reach the top of the incline and pause once more, taking off my hat and feel the wind whipping my hair. I reflect on how walking has been part of my nature – wellness journey, how the rhythmic movement of one foot in front of the other has bought peace and allowed the circling thoughts to step aside. During my burnouts and deep fatigue, walking gently, at my own pace alongside nature has bought fresh perspective and acceptance. Every walk invites presence and a gentle peace of mind.

Emerging from the trees I follow the stony path and see Bluebells have replaced the Garlic. Their sturdy clumps of pure joy sway in the breeze and I realise how every Bluebell is different, every flower unique in its own shining light. A light that shines for only a short window of time and I ponder on how nature provides beauty and glimmers that cannot be summoned by a flick of a switch or an instant download. That we must wait for the Wild Garlic and the Bluebells time, that we must go searching for the lonely Buzzards call.

I continue my way and hear a new sound, familiar and known. The sound of distant traffic. In another few minutes I will find myself back in civilisation, back amongst the to do lists and modern-day callings.

As I leave the Bluebells behind, I know there is still time.

The window is open for a while yet and I shall return to be part of Springs gentle unfolding. To be with the Wild Garlic and the Bluebells swaying on the soft, warming breeze.

Thank you for taking this gentle rest with me. I am humbled you have joined me.

If you would like to travel alongside for longer you are warmly invited to subscribe to receive my weekly free Nature’s Seasonal Letters.

For those who wish to journey deeper with me you are invited warmly to join my paid membership, ‘Beneath The Trees.’ Fortnightly personal letters sharing my journey of a slower rooted life and return to nature. I would be honoured to walk this path with you.

Seasonal Warmth to you all

Clare

The sun breathes softly across the room, it hovers in dark corners transforming them to light and as the old pine tree sways outside, the sun gently moves with it, casting a soothing energy across my face.

It is half past seven in the morning, and the calmness has come after the storm. Last night when all was dark, cold rain and high winds whipped around my cottage, battling against the windows and thundering on the roof. As I warm my hands on my mug, I think of the Robin, who sings so exuberantly outside my window. Where was he during the wildness of the night? Where was he when winter hovered like an unwanted guest who has outstayed their welcome?

I open my front door to scatter seed upon the path and as the Robin swoops down at my feet, I feel the freshly, cleansed air. I see last night’s rain formed in puddles and I watch the ripples as the cold breeze travels past, moving my hair and making me pull my long cardigan close. As I close the door, I see the Crocuses swaying in the wintry breeze, their resilience a message of brighter days to come.

We find ourselves, in a shifting, shaping and transitional time. We stand at a dancing threshold; we see the soft footsteps of spring, nature’s magic of buds unfurling and feel the first warming rays of the sun and yet as we turn our faces towards the light, the retreating figure of winter turns once more to look upon us, to scatter us, to send cold, buffeting winds and fierce downpours of rain.

I pull on my thick coat and woolly hat. They hang next to my lighter jacket and my yellow, cotton scarf, waiting patiently for the warmer days that beckon beyond the Winter, Spring threshold, beyond the icy winds and the primroses that bravely hold on. As I button up my coat and adjust my wool scarf, I know their time will come.

Today I walk the opposite way from the churchyard and my allotment. My hens, who live at my plot wake with the light. They have been pottering in their run for over an hour now as the gift of daylight stretches out longer each day, journeying towards the Spring Equinox with a pace that quickens each gentle sunrise. Falling on the twentieth of March, the balance between night and day moves ever closer and Winter will release his grip with a humble surrender to what must be.

I take a local path, cutting through alongside two old cottages, noticing the fresh grass growing through the gaps of the paving slabs, still damp from the recent rain. Reaching a gate, I quietly pass through it and here my walk takes me upwards where I know at the top, I will be rewarded with a breathtaking view.

Tucking my hands deeper into my pockets I allow myself to come out of thinking and into feeling as my footsteps ground into the soft earth and my face looks up towards the sun. I sense both Winter and Springs presence on this hill, the two seasons intertwined within the wind, the earth and the ancient hilltop itself.

As I walk, I reflect upon my journey to live a slower life. After multiple burnouts with teaching full- time I know I craved what I could not feel and see. The breeze, the open space, the vastness of the sky. Unless I have access to nature I fade, like a flower who wilts in unfertile soil, unable to breathe and be well. This is why I am drawn to wild places, where time is told through the seasons, through the return of the swallows and the flow of a river to the sea.

Taking the last few steps, I reach the flat expanse of the hill where I pause to catch my breath before finding stillness to gaze over the landscape before me. Villages nestle, woodland trees gather and a stream gurgles at the foot of the hill. Taking out my flask from my rucksack, I sit on a nearby fallen log and taking a sip of tea I silently wait.

I do not have to wait for long.

Emerging from beyond the edge of the hill and racing across the flat expanse of the land beneath me, I see her clearly. Feel her energy, the mystical power. Sitting upright to keep her in view, I see another, getting closer, paws grounding into the earth, gaining distance by the second.

Two Hares.

I gently stand for a better view and see the first Hare turn direction and circle around the second. A display of pure brilliance follows as the female stands on her hind legs and prepares to box, sending a clear message to the male with her dancing long legs and her graceful paws.

This sight, a dancing cycle that happens early Spring is a gift beyond any words. As I watch the male submit graciously, they both suddenly run, their powerful legs becoming small dots on the landscape, leaving only a trail of dust within the morning sun.

Sitting down, I feel strangely alone. The dust settles and the sun is shrouded by a thick, menacing cloud. I feel Winter’s chill nudging me, reminding me he is still present even in a faded form.

And yet as I walk back down the hill, towards the village and my waiting cottage, I sense a message carried by the wind. A message left by the soft rays of the sun and by the running Hares.

We are stepping over the threshold away from Winter and into Spring’s soft, dancing embrace.

Thank you for taking this gentle rest with me. I am humbled you have joined me.

If you would like to travel alongside for longer you are warmly invited to subscribe to receive my weekly free Nature’s Seasonal Letters. I would be honoured to walk this path with you.

For those who wish to journey deeper with me you are invited warmly to join my paid membership, ‘Beneath The Trees.’ Fortnightly personal letters sharing my journey of a slower rooted life and return to nature.

You may also like to read my past writings of this transitional, seasonal time here:

Sending seasonal warmth and love to you all

Clare

The morning light awoke before me.

A gentle, softening that quietly nudged and brushed against my face; a light that whispered of opened flowers, of warming soil and of young birds flying free for the first time.

It tiptoed through my stone cottage, brushing the cold stone with rays of soft warmth and expanding its energy of hope and renewal into every wintry, dark corner. The light came in through the letterbox and under the crack in the door; it hovered over the fireplace and settled down in my comfy chair like an old friend who had arrived earlier than expected and now patiently waited.

As I stirred from my sleep I thought of Spring and how its arrival comes with a warming, gentle laughter and light footsteps that quicken with each passing day. How the energy of the earth changes from a dormant slumber to an awakening growth.

After so many weeks of rain and Winter’s icy breath lingering, I had dreamt of this soft light, this calling to awaken, to stir, to move once again. Like the green nettles emerging from the soil, my dreams whispered of new life, growth and a tilting of the earth towards the sun.

Opening my eyes, I felt Spring’s soft cloak smelling of fresh green grass and springy, fertile soil. Feeling a brief, lingering chill, I sensed Winter’s icy footsteps had retreated and his blanket of frozen earth had thawed, making way for Springs warming rays to wake the sleeping soil.

Awakening fully, I walked softly downstairs to open my curtains, to gently welcome the new day.

I am greeted by a beautiful song of exuberant notes and energy. The Robin is joined by other birds, all celebrating the new cycle, a time of new life, of growing light and new beginnings. Daffodils sway in the gentle breeze and as I open my window I can smell fresh coffee from a neighbouring garden.

With the arrival of March came whole days of soft sun and blue skies. I felt a deep release, a shedding of the old as I finally put away my thick winter coat and woolly hats. This act felt like a sacred ceremony, an ending that needed to come to make way for the new.

As I pull on my outdoor boots to step outside, I take a deep inhale of the fresh morning. The air speaks of growth and renewal with trails of woodland bursting into life and song. I exhale deeply releasing Winter and look up at the sky, a soft red in the distance promising a day of new warmth and light.

Spring has returned as it always has.

Thank you for taking this gentle rest with me. I am humbled you have joined me.

If you would like to travel alongside for longer you are warmly invited to subscribe to receive my weekly free Nature’s Seasonal Letters. I would be honoured to walk this path with you.

Sending seasonal warmth to you all

Clare

A Late February morning at 6.30am

I had slept in.

Stirring, I felt rather than saw the translucent light from behind the curtains. The peace surrounding me felt different. Quieter and precious. As I opened my eyes a Robin began to sing, his sweet notes a beautiful melody for the start of my day. Reaching for my thick cardigan and warm socks, I remembered it was Sunday and the village slept like a gentle dawn.

Padding down to the kitchen, it was already light, a soft hovering over my courtyard garden, as if the dawn had tiptoed in through the gate whilst I slept, quietly, peacefully and unannounced.

Switching the kettle on I reached for my boots and slipping them on I opened the backdoor to walk into the garden to meet the new day, to say good morning to the earth. Although the light was soft and still, I was greeted by a chorus of birdsong; ecstatic and abundant, moving and beautiful. A show just for me, as others slept on.

Above the melancholy sound of the Blackbird and the exuberant notes of the Robin, there was a louder song that seemed to tower above the trees themselves, a song that seemed to carry over the nearby hill, towards the flowing river who would take the notes far away towards distant places I do not know. I gazed up and saw the Song Thrush; such a small bird, his silhouette perched on the nearby Pine. His song was a message; a promise of what is to come.

As I closed the door and reached for the kettle a word came to me, a word that the joyful birds, the warming earth and the morning dawn seemed to echo.

Awakening.

Like a spark turned into a flame, the earth herself is awakening and turning towards the sun.

Sipping my first cup of tea I reflect on my own Spring awakening and how this Winter has seen me cocooned under thick wool throws with a roaring fire as cold rain and icy wind claimed the land. Having caught a bad bout of flu I hibernated like a curled-up dormouse only emerging with layers of thick clothing, a person from any time or place and part of the ancient landscape as I walked my elderly dog over the churchyard to tend to my waiting hens.

During this Winter I have felt comfort in small, quiet sounds that are timeless and suggest to me a whisper of the past. Memories of peaceful, simpler times when keeping warm and waiting for Spring was normal and time passed through the gentle turning of the earth and the slow return of the light.

The old church clock chiming the hour, the owls’ quiet calls when I could not sleep. The flickering of a candle, the crackle of wood on the fire and the gentle snores of my faithful spaniel.

These daily sounds anchor us in the present; they become familiar and needed in a world that can be demanding and loud. As I look out of my kitchen window, I hear the migratory geese flying over my roof. A sound of old and one which transports me to how the land was before modern day life. Before the sound of traffic or machines. A time when stories were told around the fire and a comforting, ticking clock told the time.

Finishing my tea, I reach for my coat and closing the front door I walk through the iron church gate and into the sleeping ground of old headstones of bygone times. But where there are memories of the past, there are calls of the present and I look up to see the Song Thrush still on his spot, claiming his kingdom through the magic of his song.

Reaching the allotment gate, I pause and notice how the Snowdrops petals are wider, how they are loosening their grip. I notice how some have begun their journey of returning to the soil, their late Winter cycle waning now, their time nearly over. As I walk through the gate and hear the welcome sound of my hens, I notice a new life has emerged from the soil and a new cycle has begun.

I stop to welcome the yellow, wild Primrose.

And I sense on the early, morning breeze new life around me.

It is time to awaken.

Thank you for taking this gentle rest with me. I am humbled you have joined me.

If you would like to travel alongside for longer you are warmly invited to subscribe to receive my weekly free Nature’s Seasonal Letters. I would be honoured to walk this path with you.

Sending seasonal warmth to you all

Clare

Early February morning at dawn.

Rain is falling; it travels down the windowpanes; it falls into puddles and on the soft leaves of the fir tree standing outside my front door. Daffodils, newly opened sway gently and snowdrops pause, like little lanterns held up within the dark.

The log burner glows and a thrush begin his song; the notes are carried away on raindrops, over the church steeple and far away to the distant trees where a fox pauses with one paw raised before disappearing silently into the hidden undergrowth.

Holding a cup of tea under a thick throw, I am listening to the dawn. Sensing and feeling the quiet, the soft presence of time itself. Once we remove human noise, we can hear nature speak. We can listen to its messages, its wisdom and feel, like the fox, a stirring within our hearts of what is to come.

It has been almost two years since a nudge, an awareness came for me to return to a simpler, quieter way of being. That modern, fast – paced life was drowning out seasonal rhythms, that a noisy, productive way of being was not allowing me to thrive. It has been a journey of ebb and flow, a practice of taking steps tentatively, to seek guidance alongside daily rituals, to find peace and joy in the turning of the days, and to carve out time to pause, to reflect and to move with intention.

To move mindfully, to uncurl gently like the emerging daffodil as it begins to unfurl.

Placing my cup down, I stoop to put a log onto the fire. Watching the flames flicker I reflect on this Winter and how it has called for deep refuge, retreat and patient waiting. How the darkness came early, how the quiet was absolute. And yet, as we travel these February days, Winter has released his grip.

The earth is no longer resting, it is emerging.

Like the daylight that greets us earlier each dawn, we can see the path through the forest, the way towards the Wild Garlic, the Primroses and Bluebells. Not yet visible, we feel them breathe, we sense their awakening from within the soil. In a world where certainty is unstable, these seasonal awakenings, as old as time itself give us a solid ground to tread, a way to follow, a way that has been carved out before.

I carry my tea to the window and look across at the fir tree and marvel at its ability to just be. Droplets of water glisten at the edge of pointed leaves like glimmering faraway lights and the damp bark is a smell of old, reminding me of forests long ago, of land covered in leaves, of wolves and full, round moons.

A log crackles and falls into the fire as I gently open my front door. The robin, my early visitor is waiting, and I scatter seed on the doorstep. As he swoops down a gust of icy wind reminds me of Winters presence. I look the other way and see the line of daffodils, not yet open but a yellow promise, like the sun, a reminder that Spring, with her light step and green rich cloak will come and her footsteps will warm the earth’s soil.

The Robin flies up into the trees, and I close the door with a gentle exhale. The room is warm, comforting and I have no desire to leave it yet. Wintering this year has been a daily ritual of keeping warm in an ancient stone cottage with drafts in every corner. And yet part of me has welcomed this season into my home. The rattle of the windowpanes during recent storms, the heavy rain on the roof and the steaming of my dripping winter coat after returning from feeding my hens. Seasonal reminders that seem to slow down time, to allow for a presence of what is, to mirror Winter’s company by feeling cocooned and warm.

As I carry my cup into the kitchen, I see the rain has eased. The sky has lightened and I hear another sound in the distance. It gets nearer and nearer, and I open the door to see the Winter geese flying overhead, their sound becoming more distant as they disappear over the hill and far away. To me they seen to be carrying a message within their calling; an urgency that tells me time is running out. Winter’s breath of ice and glory is almost over. Winter is living on borrowed time.

And yet, as I make my way back to the warmth of the fire, I am content to be with Winter a little longer. Spring will arrive on time and until then I will wake each day with the lengthening dawn.

Thank you for taking this gentle rest with me. I am humbled you have joined me.

If you would like to travel alongside for longer you are warmly invited to subscribe to receive my weekly free Nature’s Seasonal Letters. I would be honoured to walk this path with you.

Sending seasonal warmth to you all

Clare

One O Clock in the morning and all is dark.

I awake to hear the rain heavy against my single – glazed window and hear the latch rattle as the wind circles the cottage with restless energy that comes and goes with bursts of fury. Raindrops thud against the roof, cold and relentless; they pour down the guttering and the walls of the house to become part of the flow of endless water streaming past my front door.

Huddled under a thick winter duvet, I listen to the elements as their mighty power claims the darkness and Winter’s pointed staff of cold, icy rain, foreboding dark clouds and buffeting wind takes over the land.

There is a special magic about being cocooned, warm and safe whilst late Winter storms rage and battle. Winter’s spirit gains strength within the dark and I feel there is a message within the winds roar and the rains descent.

A final blaze of glory, a ferocious window of letting go of what remains; before the tide turns and his reign of ice and cold is over.

As I listen to the sounds as old as time itself, I think of those wild ones outside, hibernating, staying warm and safe within their protective cocoon provided by nature and the earth herself. I realise how I too must mirror their breathing, their warmness, their need to bury deeper into their dens. I wonder if they know this storm is one of the last, that Winter is living on borrowed time. I sigh and turn over, sending a quiet message to those patiently waiting.

Not long now.

I awake to the Robin singing. It is still dark, but the air is lighter. All is calm and I hear only stillness and gentle notes. I gently pad over to the window and peer out. The clouds have long gone and fading stars look down upon me, far away lights of glimmer and hope. Reaching for my thick jumper, I pull it on and make my way downstairs, to open the back door, a ritual I do every morning to sense, welcome and feel the morning air.

The storm gone, has left a cleansed feel, as if the old has been swept away, leaving only glistening dewdrops and silent, still trees, waiting patiently underneath the light of the far-away moon. As I breathe in the coolness, the aliveness, I hear the early alarm call of the Blackbird announcing the beginning of a new day, a day where Winter has retreated and a whisper of Spring is promised on the breeze.

Closing the door quietly, I switch on the kettle and as I gaze out towards the dawn, I reflect upon the coming of Spring and how the light slowly appearing is a promise of what is to come. Despite the storm, nature has shifted, has turned away from the icy hold of Winters grasp. I sense a longing, a looking up at the sun, a patient waiting for her soft cloak of smiling warmth and growth.

As I sip my tea I look out and watch the light gently emerging. Like a glimmer, that becomes a spark, that becomes a flame I watch as the sky becomes brighter and listen as the birds sing ever louder and the Snowdrops become visible like white beacons of hope outside my window.

Putting down my mug, I gather what I need to make my short walk over the village churchyard to the allotment and my waiting hens. Emerging with the dawn, they too have felt Springs message on the wind, they too have stirred and felt the rising energy alongside the growing light.

Closing the front door softly behind me I walk quietly through the ancient churchyard, vapours of mist hang below the stones and water drips from nearby trees. The dawn chorus is louder now, and I feel lifted as I reach the old gate. Pausing for a moment, I look up towards the sky. The darkness is now gone, and I sense without seeing the soft presence of the sun. With almost a month of daily rain, I sense the gift of respite, that Winter has, for the time being surrendered, to allow hope for what will come.

As I walk through the gate, I feel the familiar rays of long-ago warmth on my face and notice how, overnight, a yellow primrose has emerged from hibernation and has turned its petals towards the sun.

Not long now.

Thank you for taking this gentle rest with me. I am humbled you have joined me.

If you would like to travel alongside for longer you are warmly invited to subscribe to receive my weekly free Nature’s Seasonal Letters. I would be honoured to walk this path with you.

Sending seasonal warmth to you all

Clare