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.
