First day back with Anne, and the weather was damp and fresh. The morning glistened with optimism. It was now spring and this struck me as auspicious. I have a natural love of the turn of the seasons, and spring is always a good omen for new beginnings.
I have had the great good fortune to experience over fifty years of springtime, and never does this gift go amiss on me. It is a wonderful sensory experience. The areas we inhabit turn a mixture of green and pastel tones and tiny specs of colour peep through mushy hedgerows. Beads of tiny jewels appear on deep brown snappy branches and I inhale the dampness that rises in the mornings with a hazy awakening.
My eyes are not as good as they could be and ones view is like seeing light through a stained glass window. I call these times my Monet mornings and I always think about Monet painting his water lilies. This gives me comfort that age is no restriction on the ability to produce creative inspiration. Anne's kettle had just boiled, but I allowed another second to take in the first impression of her garden.
It was utterly charming in an unruled kind of way. I was unable to see the end boundary but what did strike me as interesting was the noise from birds, not in itself is this unusual, but the garden had a real sense of life. It held the promise of a space that Anne and myself could retreat to on her road to recovery. The path needed to be cleared to allow for wheelchair access. I was in no doubt that with time and warmer weather, Anne's family would make this a positive priority.
Now this is where something inspirational takes place - a happening in the soul and heart of a person. For what I am about to explain is magical, within vibrations of feelings that mysteriously rise. This was my introduction to wikkjaz wilding.
As I stood there in quiet observation, momentarily I felt completely connected to that precise moment in time. I could feel - literally feel - the beauty in this messy garden, the charm of all its potential and a desire in me to move with this feeling. I felt like this place was mine and it was me. I felt love for an image that did not need my love. It was perfectly imperfect.
I felt a need to tell someone about what I was feeling. I felt motivated to own something equally imperfect, something that did not ask or require ownership or control. I fully understood in one simple flash that this live, wild space that sat just outside Anne's kitchen door was in balance and harmony, saying:
This is freedom, this is real, this is organic, this is what every conscious mind requires to rebalance, decompress, and breathe...
And as soon as I felt these natural, energizing vibrations... Boom! The feeling dispersed as quickly as it arrived.
I reflected for a moment. Then the mind took over, reminding me I had a job to do, reminding me this was not my garden. I had no right to implant myself upon it, and firmly reminding me, that one day in the future when my own world and environment lent itself to more free time, I might if I was lucky feel this feeling once more.
Notice how I did not say my mind. My own mind would not be so harsh on my feelings. What was playing out was years of conditioning. Anyone who knows me well would be able to tell you my response to the voice I heard.
Bollocks to that, I am on a mission.