The breath of the air

The blue sky that has cheered our hearts all week has gone, hidden by sheltering clouds. From a distance the sky just looks grey but when you look up you can see white shapes and textures racing towards the east, towards the sun which sometimes peeks through. It is pearly grey above and green below. The wind that brings the clouds is a thing of beauty, muscling in on my garden sanctuary, moving then resting, sometimes reaching the high-hanging leaves, sometimes my face. It isn’t cold or warm, it must be blood-heat. It is like the breath of the air, the breath of this day.


There have been storms, there have been floods. Here the garden and air are wet but elsewhere in Britain the ground is underwater and gasping for reprieve. I can see the culprits sailing by, dark clouds pouring from the west, now relieved of their rainfall so giving us a miss. The air is aswirl with them like smoke separating and surging below the pale grey sky, hurrying east as if running a race. The leaves tremble and are caught in the wind that urges them on, wanting to go with them.


Sunshine and showers, time and eternity, here and heaven, energy and form, yin and yang. What a dance it is, being a child of the universe, being aware of the ultimate reality of timeless, beneficent energy but being earthed now, embodied in this time and place. Both are important. If I try to just live in either reality I will lose what there is for me here. Weave them together, weave them with breath and love, with a deep involvement and interest that doesn’t hold on or predict or control. Find the flesh in the spirit, find the divine in the ordinary, find eternity in this moment.

Like champagne

Who wouldn’t want to start the morning like this, sitting in the quiet garden with September sun filtering through the leaves and playing on my face? This is my pause after early kitchen routines, a pause to give space to inner things, to let the well of soul breathe deep and then stretch like a cat so that the unfolding day is held in its spaces. I can drink the air, drink the newness of the day, like champagne.

There is always welcome

September. I love September and its mellow, hallowed sun. I love its peace, its fruitfulness, its completeness, and its smiling willingness to forget itself and yield to autumn. This year there are no plums on my tree and few apples but it isn’t worried. There are seeds aplenty storing the bowels of this summer for the future. It is still green, a lazy mantle of life covering the land, filling and filled by the air. There are still roses, there is still warmth, there is always welcome.