Hallo morning sunshine, hallo mellow peace of a Sunday garden. Welcome warm breeze, welcome singing birds. I have found a spot to sit in the sun so I can draw it into my system, let it ooze through my clothes and my skin to my bones. It has been a while. The sun seems gentler here than out on the street, here it is surrounded by green, filtered through air that is the living breath of leaves. It is hard to stay tense, all tightness drains away in the soft sun.

Trusting. Trusting for tomorrow so that I can live in today. Trusting for arrangements to fall into place, and if they don’t, for grace to see the bigger picture. Trusting that I am not at work alone in this Universe, that there are harmonies of love undergirding us all. Trusting that my place here is secure; I have freedom to try, to make mistakes, to achieve, and to let go of achieving. Trusting that joy is never out of reach, that peace is always available. Trusting that the small things I do are as valuable as the big things. Trusting that this moment is all that I need right now.

I am sitting in a bower, hawthorn branches arch over me like wings. They catch the sun and sift its light. Laurel is my throne, strong leaves behind me touch my head while at my feet, to left and right, ferns curl. I am held by green.

Here I am in my beautiful garden in wet July, in this cool, errant summer. It is always here, like God, like joy, while I pursue my life elsewhere. It is here, and if I sojourn here again I can take it with me when I go. It has changed since last I was here, a week of growth, now the roses have dropped and the buddleia is bursting purple. There are white clouds racing across the blue sky towards the west, towards the hidden sun, and the trees are riffling the breeze. But here, in my gravel garden, the air only moves gently like a well-mannered guest. I will breathe its cool balm with my skin, with my blood. It is the freshness of a new day.

It is so fresh in the garden, fresh after refreshing rain, fresh with early morning light, fresh with the beginning of spring, fresh with the love of a gentle sun. The trees are in that delightful state of being leafed, newly brightly shining green, still small, still testing the air. The spring flowers are drinking in the rain at their roots, drinking in the sun, sitting as still as the Sunday morning. The sky is all blue except for one tiny white wisp of a cloud sailing east which melts into the air as I look. Now we are all blue, we are benign, we are birdsong, we are promise.