Clearing Before Blooming
Subtle shifts in season, small signs of light, and the steady work of tending land and life.
Weather, a subject that everyone can talk about and always have an opinion on is ever so slowly shifting. It is not warm, not yet but perhaps softer around the edges.
There is now a measurable difference, benchmarked quietly against the house move just over eight weeks ago. Then, it was breath-cloud mornings and torchlight walks down the path to the car before school runs. Now, both journeys happen in daylight. That alone feels like progress.
The temperature blanket tells the same story. I have changed the yarn colour several times this week, subtle shifts rather than dramatic leaps. I am still enjoying the process, dropped stitches and all. Interestingly, the more intricate patchwork squares feel easier than simple stocking stitch. Perhaps concentration thrives on complexity; perhaps repetition invites complacency. There is a lesson in that somewhere.
This week for me for the first time, the focus has moved outward. There has already been work completed and attention paid, it was necessary. I never thought I would be measuring time in skips! We are on number three and this time the biggest one which could domestically be delivered has been filled. Wow!
The inside of the house has settled into something resembling normal domestic rhythm with laundry folded, drawers assigned, pantry aligned. More bedroom furniture, wonderfully pre-loved and more than perfect has arrived for one girls bedroom and if this was the only progress made this week it would count as very successful. Outside, however, feels full of possibility and effort in equal measure and I feel a frizzon of excitement knowing that. It is difficult to gauge how much space we have because space is always relative, but what I know is this: there is more than before, and with that comes responsibility. The space outside is bound by the same planning permission restrictions (or opportunity) as the house.
Before beauty however comes clearing. We/he have been removing waste that was here when we arrived, only to uncover more hidden beneath. Old branches, discarded wood, forgotten corners. Slowly, methodically, the process of chopping and stacking has continued. Some of it now lives neatly in the wood shed, ready for the log burner. We have already used a little, and there is something deeply grounding about warming the house with wood gathered from your own land. A quiet circularity. A sense of stewardship rather than consumption.
Next comes the less romantic work — removing dead tree remnants concealed behind where the chicken coop once stood, and seeking professional help to manage the conifers that have grown unchecked. It seems there has been a season of neglect here, which means we must take a gentle step backwards before moving forward. It is all the before that needs as much attention as the now and there needs to be clearing before planting and a process of resetting before flourishing.
Wonderfully though daffodils have begun to appear they were as much unexpected, scattered, as unplanned. They will stay exactly where they are even in their randomness, such is nature. Their arrival feels like a small affirmation that the land remembers how to bloom, even if it has been left to its own devices.
I find myself thinking about seeds and about the quiet hope of pressing something small and seemingly insignificant into soil and trusting that, with the right balance of light, water and patience, it will germinate. Seeds require darkness before they reach for the sun. They demand consistency, not drama. I will begin some indoors soon with trays lined along a windowsill, and hopefully tiny green shoots stretching tentatively upwards. There is something profoundly hopeful about nurturing growth from its earliest stage, witnessing that fragile beginning.
At the same time, I will buy a few established plants for immediate colour, and visible progress because sometimes we need both: the long wait and the instant lift.
As always, I find myself guided by the notes already written in Seasons at Oulton. The book feels less like something I am creating and more like a companion walking alongside me. The words about tending, patience, rhythm they are not theoretical. They are lived and living.
This week has reminded me that outside spaces, like inner lives, occasionally require clearing before they can flourish. Old wood must be gathered and ead branches removed so the hidden corners exposed to light.
There is no rush. We are here for the long term.
The seasons are shifting, not dramatically, but faithfully as expected.
And perhaps that is enough.
This is home
This is Oulton Lowe Living.
