I had to come out to the garden to work today. I had to. Surrounded by yellow Welsh poppies and the throaty call of wood pigeons– now expanding into a choir, I’m making a space—not to work the garden this time, but to work in the garden. The golden light and soft warm breeze called to me, soothing my soul. How could I stay in the darkened house on a day like this? I once knew a man who worked for the State of Alaska; he related that sunlight there was so scarce, when the sun made an appearance the State immediately declared a holiday!

I couldn’t exactly declare a holiday, but I’ve taken on the challenge to find a place in our back garden where the sun, though welcome, doesn’t overcome my laptop screen. I’ve found a narrow space in the shade of our wooden fence—shade for the computer; sun cream for me. Yorkshire being the hilly land that it is, our garden slopes in many directions, so I’m slanting.

I feel so much more peace when I’m in my garden—whatever size space I have, quite possibly since God himself, planted the first garden. Functionality wasn’t enough for God; he saw to it that the fruit trees he planted were not only good for food, but also pleasing to the eye. God built beauty into his garden and walked in it with his Adam and Eve.

Now the blackbirds sing their joy, wood pigeons adding a chorus. When I walk near their trees, I thank the choristers for their beautiful songs.

The yellow Welsh poppies have year after year, sprung up through the gravel on their own, a pleasant and welcome addition to a previously bleak space.  The English bluebells, protected pride of the land, displayed their arcs of intensely blue nodding bells in the back garden and the side flower bed in their time. A rich heritage. Finished now, their long narrow leaves lie flat, feeding their bulbs for next year’s show.

Amazing that after nearly ten weeks of pandemic lockdown, I could feel so happy. The nearly all clear blue sky is heating now; time to find a shadier spot