[I wrote this in late June 2012, saved and forgot it, but I thought it was worth sharing even now, nearly four years later].
Gardening ties you to the year, of course. You must sow your beans now, or it will be too late for an autumn harvest. You shouldn't have sown your oriental leaves until this week, or they will run to seed prematurely. The raspberries are ripe - out in the garden - right now, go and pick them or they'll be gone for another year. They needed those months of winter dormancy, cold and darkness, to rest and gather their strength; that frantic burst of growth in the spring, coming into leaf; the weeks of flowering, and the clouds of bees to pollinate them and set the fruit. Too much or too little cold, or rain, late frosts, or drought, and they are lost. The ebb of sunshine up to June, and the imperceptible falling away again even as the summer builds in temperature and fecundity - all of this is witnessed in the garden, first hand, intimately.
Gardening ties you to the year, of course. You must sow your beans now, or it will be too late for an autumn harvest. You shouldn't have sown your oriental leaves until this week, or they will run to seed prematurely. The raspberries are ripe - out in the garden - right now, go and pick them or they'll be gone for another year. They needed those months of winter dormancy, cold and darkness, to rest and gather their strength; that frantic burst of growth in the spring, coming into leaf; the weeks of flowering, and the clouds of bees to pollinate them and set the fruit. Too much or too little cold, or rain, late frosts, or drought, and they are lost. The ebb of sunshine up to June, and the imperceptible falling away again even as the summer builds in temperature and fecundity - all of this is witnessed in the garden, first hand, intimately.
Birds
are another link to this, the passing of the year. Go down to the
beach in February, and the whole world seems grey. The sky is grey,
the sea is grey, the wet sand reflecting nothing but grey. On a calm
day, the lapping waves are the face of an invisible mass - there's no
horizon, and the seascape could be a stage set, a veneer - or it
could stretch on forever, the only reality. The birds down there then are noisy,
various, ever-moving. The year-round gulls and oystercatchers are
joined by tiny sanderlings, invisible until you realise they are
there - smaller than blackbirds, never still, scuttling over the
sand; there are redshanks and godwits, turnstones on the rocks, and
at dusk great clouds of starlings, sweeping in to roost under the
piers. But in June, you'll find the beach open, and empty, just a few
white gulls and whistling bands of oystercatchers remain. At dawn all
is lilac, then it divides into golden brown and blue above. The same
lapping waves transport the mind to tropical shores, the world seems
immediate and interconnected, no longer ghostly and disembodied.
Terns on the wing bring a touch of glamour - not the cosy, round
birds of winter, but sleek and pointed. The year has turned, and that
same place - the beach - is another. Two worlds sharing one space,
separated by time.
--
Night
at this time of year doesn't bother me, because it's so short -
literally a shadow passing over. As on a day with blue skies, and
just a few small clouds - when one passes in front of the sun, it's
suddenly cold, and dull, but you look up and see it will soon pass,
and it doesn't trouble you. You know the sun will return so soon.
That's how it is with summer nights - just as your mind settles into
the darkness, it melts away. You can luxuriate in light - there's so
much of it. Hours of light have passed when most people are getting
up, and there are many more in which to do what you need to, to be
out in the world.
