It is summer. Maybe it rains a bit too much, maybe it's been too cold to swim recently. But the flowering in the wild garden goes on regardless. "Weeds" as they are sometimes called, wrap themselves around bushes and bulbs. The whole exuberant over the top lushness of it will be short . . .
An old Cherokee chief was teaching his grandson about life... "A fight is going on inside me," he said to the boy. "It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. "One is evil - he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, . . .
It's been a busy time. The sun came out and that drew blossoms, bees and foxgloves into it's light. Then, against all the odds, it came out the next day too, and the day after that. And the sun is still shining as I write this. It is unusually fabulous weather in . . .
Everything is lush; the lane is coming into the best part of the year. I am besotted with green, tiny buds coming into flower, light as it illuminates petals and unfurling leaves. I wonder sometimes how nature can survive our bleak winters and the onslaught of chemicals and factory . . .
We mostly operate on auto pilot. While driving the car we go off into day dreams and don't even know where we are sometimes. How is it we can't remember what we were doing this time last year, or even last week? Auto pilot is our normality. We are always more aware on special days; when . . .
We watch, in hope that they will re-appear each Spring. Wild Irish Hares have become scarce in some places but there are still a few around here. As long as intensive farming is in fashion, all wild animals will be vulnerable. But this week they were back, . . .
Ten times a day something happens to me like this - some strengthening throb of amazement - some good sweet empathic ping and swell. This is the first, the wildest and the wisest thing I know: that the soul exists and is built entirely out of attentiveness.” Mary Oliver Primroses, . . .
It's 9 AM. Look closely at the top left to see her ( a tiny speck) perching on the highest point on the hill. Thrush It's a daily habit. She rises early and if the morning seems perfect, no wind, no rain, she stands, chest puffed up, opens her throat and sings her song. She has . . .
I'm starting to look for signs of Spring. Bluer blues, brighter whites, dazzling yellows. Soon the Spring stars of the show will have the limelight all to themselves in the dormant landscape. It's the 100th Anniversary of our Easter Rising, the Rebellion of 1916 that led to the setting . . .
"If you don't love things in particular, you cannot love the world, because the world doesn't exist except in individual things" Thomas Moore The ditches are a jumble of briars, a tangle of weeds, a mess of curling browning leaves. They cascade onto the lane, in the subdued light . . .