Where Seeds Take Root

Beginning again with a small intention

Hello Beautiful Souls, welcome to ‘Beneath the Trees.’ I am humbled we have gathered under the blossom at the start of a beautiful, new day.

This first ‘Beneath the Trees’ letter is open for everyone to read. I wanted to share the beginning of the story with you.

Future letters in this quieter space will be written for paid subscribers, where I will continue sharing my journey of building a slower, more rooted life, through the seasons, the allotment, the hens, an old, tiny cottage and the small discoveries that come when we step away from the noise of the world.

If you feel drawn to walk this path with me, I would be honoured to have you join me Beneath the Trees.

In this first letter, I want to share how a small intention, spoken aloud took root and became a real place of growth, peace, and nature connection.

Three o’clock in the afternoon, an early Spring day in March.

I am sitting quietly, listening to the robin singing outside my window. Despite the school-rush hour, all is peaceful. The church, next to my tiny and ancient rented cottage, chimes the hour and I close my eyes briefly, feeling as though I have stepped back in time, away from modern-day noise and notifications.

I realise, as I pause, that I have quietly stepped aside from the outside noise of daily life. I am living in a slower, more rooted way.

But it was not always so.

The life I live now, my tiny cottage, visiting my allotment and five hens on the other side of the churchyard, writing my nature letters is so removed from the life I led almost seven years ago that I wonder who that person was: the frayed, tired, quiet soul who commuted and worked long hours teaching in a primary school before falling into bed exhausted. Over the years, I became disconnected from nature. My only free day was Saturday, spent cleaning and shopping, while Sunday was devoted to preparing for the week ahead.

In September 2019, I finally burnt out and began my slow recovery. I returned to the one thing I had loved as a child: nature. I noticed the blackbird’s song, the early morning sunshine on my face. I sat on a garden bench and listened to the distant traffic commute. I realised I had stepped off the societal path and was walking a forest trail that felt overgrown and at times very foggy. I could not see the way ahead, but there were trees, so many trees and their presence held me grounded, held me firm, so I would not stumble and fall.

I switch on the kettle and reach for a cup. Outside, two squirrels chase each other, living fully in the present moment with ease and joy. As I slowly make my tea, I think back to how I came to care for the allotment.

When I first left teaching, I stayed with family, as my own home had to be sold; I could no longer afford it. Life had changed dramatically. Once predictable, it was now slow, and I searched for quiet and meaning again. As a child, my parents had an allotment, and I remember how wild it felt. Living in a built-up town, stepping into such a space felt like leaving the concrete world behind, entering a haven where all you could hear was birdsong and the digging of spades.

Over coffee two years ago, I suddenly announced to my sister, “I am going to get an allotment.”

I had not planned to say it. It simply came out, as if channelled from far away, choosing that moment over a frothy, oat cappuccino. My sister raised her eyebrows. Allotments here in the UK are hard to come by, with waiting lists of ten years in some places. Yet the sentence lingered with me, like a gentle friend who stays present without needing to speak.

Placing my tea down, I reach for my coat and softly close the front door. I walk over the church path and through the allotment gate. Throwing treats to my hens, I sit in my green chair and reflect on how I came to be caretaker of this plot of earth and how, in turn, the plot cared for me.

It was a hot, sunny day in August, and we had not had rain for weeks. Sitting outside the village community shop, I noticed a small postcard pinned to the window:

Allotments available in village by the church. Contact Sue. £25 for half plot, £50 for full plot per year.

I had forgotten my announcement to my sister. Yet here it was, a quiet confirmation of what I had spoken aloud. I took a photo of the notice and contacted Sue that evening. By the next afternoon, I was sitting in a dusty, green chair, looking at an overgrown, disused plot, marvelling at the abundance of Brimstone butterflies and wild poppies swaying in the breeze.

Having no garden of my own and living then in a busy town where highways never slept it felt like coming home. It felt like the plot, which needed deep care, had been waiting for me and we were going to heal and soothe each other from modern day struggles.

That was two and a half years ago and since then my journey has continued with taking on the disused and forgotten chicken area followed by restoring a gentle garden of wild flowers for the visiting Bees.

Feeling chilly, I get up from that same green chair and notice fresh rhubarb peeking through a raised bed and green shoots on the nearby raspberry bush; signs of new beginnings and warm, sunny days ahead. As I gently close the gate and walk back through the ancient church stones, I notice wild primroses where I had not noticed them before.

Perhaps you have noticed how life sometimes unfolds in quiet, unexpected ways?

Thank you for being part of my journey and sitting with me Beneath the Trees. These letters will arrive every two weeks for those who choose to subscribe and continue walking this path with me.

Next time when we gather Beneath the Trees, I will share the unexpected story of how I came to find my tiny cottage beside the churchyard, a place that felt as though it had quietly been waiting for me.

Sending seasonal warmth and love,
Clare