Sunrise, sunset

Being part of a place, witnessing the turn.

An early August morning. I sit in our back garden as the sun appears above the roof of our neighbour’s cottage - it takes a little longer at this point in the year.

Morning sun on my eyes and skin resets my circadian rhythms and lifts my mood for the day, always.

My sensitivity to the sun is not just emotional. Physically it changes me: freckles, wrinkles, sun “damage”, and I welcome it all. I love the look of weathered skin. As I get older I find this to be the most beautiful version of a human face. While the young are full of plump, smooth potential that can lift a heart, I see real beauty in evidence of life lived. 

These days I fit in with my weathered home. Its old stones, recycled (as we all are) hundreds of years ago from a building that stood a thousand earlier, have created a dwelling that isn’t always comfortable but is rich with character, story, and presence. Sometimes more like a tree than a house, so many different creatures live in its spaces.

Although I still dream of a warmer, drier, bluer-skied version to spend time in, I have begun - like the house - to merge with my surroundings. I belong.

The little garden I’ve enabled here is part of it. Today, tall Verbena bonariensis dance, linked by tiny, silver, cobweb ribbons glittering in the sun. Butterflies and bees join in.

In the background, in every direction, are wood pigeons. Vocal in the language I tried so hard to learn as a child, hiding in trees and trying to get them to respond to me. Decades later, I raise one of their offspring who very definitely communicated with me!

The smallest spider is in my hair and ants run across my toes. Squirrels argue over the birdfeeder next door - an astonishing vocabulary that I’m sure would make a sailor blush if they could translate. I smile as I absent-mindedly rub the little bump on my hand, a shrew bite from the day before. I had to pick him up in the kitchen and send him home. He wasn’t happy about the transport arrangements.

As autumn approaches I recognise her scent - ripened wheat on a warm breeze - and I won’t lie, I’m already sad about losing summer. Sunny days were few and far between this year and it’s hard not to feel a little cheated. We solar-powered people need the longest charge possible before circling around into the dark for months, but this is a beautiful time.

I’m feeling the gentlest pull towards nesting, to making our home soft and embracing, but I think we have a few more mornings of waking up to push open doors and windows for the day, even if that day ends noticeably earlier.

Such is the cycle. Round and round we go, ever grateful to ride along for another year. Ever grateful to witness this patch of Earth and all who live or visit here.

The swallows are almost all gone - just a few left feeding, readying for the trip south. The jackdaws gather in the woods below here, a little earlier each evening, and I feel the urge to run and join them as they circle in their chattering masses before dropping into silence. A tawny owl takes up position in the cherry tree next door, now the only voice over the sound of the brook that didn’t run dry this year.