On Winter Mornings
Nobody tells you about the magic in winter mornings, the kind that makes you pause, mittens mid-button, to listen to the stillness. There’s a quiet to these mornings that feels like it’s full to bursting—with promise, or secrets, or simply daybreak. It’s colder than a brass loo in the Arctic, as my Gerald would say. But that crisp, frosty air, hits my lungs with a kind of beauty that can only be described as refreshing.
You see, when the dawn breaks, it rolls out this glittery carpet over our property. It’s like nature’s way of saying: step right up, aren’t you ready for the show? Now before my hands freeze, and Bandit and Stevie Nicks get too restless, I pull on my mud-caked boots, and off we go.
Comings and Goings in the Garden
I think the word ‘garden’ doesn’t quite do it justice. It’s like calling a hurricane ‘a bit of wind’. This charming patch of earth has turned into a sanctuary for us. It’s an overflowing scrapbook of memories, with each plant or tree tied to a certain person or event. This garden, even in the thrall of winter, holds a certain vibrance—an endurance.
Each winter I like to take stock of what’s grown or not—there’s honesty and necessary growth in that, I reckon. The lemon tree is holding fast, though the leaves look frost-ridden. Less fortunate are the marigolds, who’ve thrown in the towel. *Just like Millie’s third husband,* you might say.
Feathers and Snouts in Abundance
Dodging the nine porkers—our dear porcine family—and our high-spirited chickens in persistent pursuit of bugs, I usually attempt a stroll down to the paddock. Winter here seems to hold an extra edge of life, like survival isn’t just serious—it’s piquantly interesting.
Our dear pigs, led by Miss Sugarplum, are a muddy, merry sight, always up to some delightful mischief. But if you thought chickens took the frosty days lying down, you’ve never seen our flock in action. Their feather duvet coats always get fluffier, their combs more crimson, their speed of finding insects uncanny.
A Praise Song for Muddy Boots
Mud has never bothered me much. I wear every mark and every splash like a badge of honor. People pay to put that stuff on their faces these days, so it can’t be that bad, right?
The truth is, I like the feel of mother nature underfoot. Mud squelching in puny protest under weighty boots, an almost cheeky sign of resistance, but eventual acceptance. I like the straight-forwardness of it—the raw connection of each step that leaves an imprint in the moist soil.
The Secret Acts of Care
Under this frosty sky, I water, prune, replant, and sometimes just stand still—the garden, animals, and even my dear boots demand it. These acts make me feel rooted in a world that keeps insisting on spinning. Now, if that’s not magic, I don’t know what is.
As the sun begins its slow climb in the winter sky, Bandit and Stevie Nicks are already up to their usual antics annoy, er… ‘playing’ with the pigs. And it’s my cue to head back to my other love: a steaming cup of tea, with a slice of Gerald’s famous apple pie. On this frosted morning, with muddy boots as my witness, I reckon I’ve earned it.