Resistance and Return

April didn’t arrive all at once.
It came slowly.
In things not quite taking.

Seedlings collapsing beside ones quietly thriving.
Mares tail rising again, uninvited as ever.
Hellebores lost to a dry spell that asked more than they could give.

And me… not quite ready to return.

Until I did.

It wasn’t some big moment. Just an evening with a bit of light and warmth left in it.

The plot had done what it always does… carried on without me. Some things held on, some didn’t. And the mares tail, of course, back at it again. Popping up like it owns the place.

I’d been away from the plot longer than I’d planned. Not by much, but enough for it to feel like a bit of a hurdle getting back. Once you break the rhythm, it’s surprisingly easy to stay away.

The rosebed’s ready now. Cleared, prepped, just sitting there waiting. No drama, just needs planting.

Elsewhere, things have been moving. April brought the first workshop of the year, which felt like a marker. Back to using produce from the plot again too… rhubarb into compote, wild garlic into butter. Simple things, but good ones. The kind you put on the table and people naturally gather round. Four people. Creating, laughing, eating.

It felt right.

It wasn’t the whole month. But towards the end, small things started to show themselves.

The birds are on the plot now.

Not all at once, not in a big way.
Just in their own time.

Two goldfinches on the dandelion clocks, taking them apart seed by seed.
Slim Jim moving the boundary, tree to fence and back again, keeping watch.
A blackbird cutting low over the shed in the evening, close enough to feel the air off its wings.

You start to see their habits once you’re there long enough.
Where they land.
What they take.
How they move through it.

They’re not passing through.
They’re using the place.

And you’re just in it with them.

Jane.