When it is Autumn, and the leaves turn orange and yellow and red and crimson and tan, I say, “This is the best time of year! This is my favourite season!” And the afternoon light is so melancholy and lovely, gently illuminating and bathing everything so that you breath almost stops and you might cry just because of the beauty, and even though the cold comes in early and at night and it’s crisp and reminds you that winter’s a’coming, it’s the best of times. Who would want to miss a second, a day of it?
You can forget, in those moments, the Spring.
Which is so razzle dazzle and full of young and fresh greenness, and blooming and newness and colour and growing, growing, everywhere.
And it’s smudgy soft pinks, blossoming, and purples…
And the roses feel the gentle sunshine, and stir and bud and bloom, and the first of them is the best of them.
And the littlest Irises reveal themselves.
You can go away for a couple of weeks and come home again and the grass, newly mown when you leave, is long and wild and straggly. And the weeds have risen up as if to strangle all that is beautiful, like Triffids.
For a couple of days I’ve been pulling the weeds and rescuing what’s bold and beautiful and getting squashed. Letting the new growth and the rewarding blooms have a turn at the gentle and soft and warm sunshine. Finding things. Remembering to stop. And look a while. Exclaim. Enjoy.
Remembering the joys of the gardener.
Remembering to smell the roses.
RosieL
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