I love these bright sunshiny Spring days; I was going to say mornings but, by the time I have manoeuvred myself from the divan, and into daytime apparel, ante-meridian is already veering toward the post component of the day. At this time of the year I’ve at least got a few more daylight hours to appreciate, even when the body achingly summons me to an afternoon nap.
What I don’t like about these bright days is the omnipresent temptation to do a little pottering about in the garden. Don’t get me wrong, I loved gardening when it didn’t have a payback clause attached, whereas now it’s far too easy to forget the limited number of spoons available.
When I succumb to the garden’s lure it so easily leads me to forget about “pacing”. My beloved is always good at reminding me to slow down, or stop, these times of physical endeavour, especially when I’m enjoying the change from my otherwise sedentary lifestyle. Actually, much of the time, the word sludge seems more appropriate than sedentary to express how this mode of being feels. Yesterday a short time spent mowing the lawn, albeit using an electric mower, seemed to have used up most of my 24 hour stamina supply.
It’s always wonderful to hear the buzzing hum of the bees, both bumble and honey, as I walk past the heather laden rockery towards the wildlife friendly reserve at the far end of the garden. Primroses and cowslips are thriving and the nettles are springing back to life; the chatter, piped and fluted songs, of our avian visitors make an idyllic background as I move into reclining mode in the summerhouse.
Even the fluttering butterflies seem like jet propelled aircraft in comparison to my enforced lethargy.