I’ve recently been over to the UK to visit family. There is a deep nostalgia and belonging that comes with being in a place that grew you, a place that was your whole world – until it wasn’t.
Over the six weeks I was there I experienced the changing of seasons. The (unusually) hot, dry days of summer, into the misty rain and cool autumn mornings. I’m not sure if it was timing, but the shift was just so apparent. The burnt dry grass turned lush and green, the last colours in cottage gardens fading to papery browns and beige, the quickening days and fresher mornings.
The reverse is true now I have returned to the Waikato. Those blustery cold rains are becoming less frequent. The sun with it’s bright quiet hot face is once again becoming familiar. There is a lengthening steadiness in between storms that invites me back into the garden, to enjoy long walks and open skies, to shed layers. And in these delicate first Spring moments I plant.
I am planting seeds to become food through the warmer months.
I am planting climbing vines to enclose my garden space and renew the sense of sanctuary.
I am planting my bare feet back in the earth, the sand, the ground of this place that is my other home.
I am planting dreams in the spaces, wild and curated, for my unborn child.
Because this Spring I am growing. Not just richly scented labdanum, experimental osmanthus, a chorus of lavender, jasmine and rose in all varieties – but a tiny human. One whose whole world will be this place, until it isn’t.
So I’m making it beautiful, gathering and nourishing the nature abundant in preparation for the change in seasons.