It seems to me that when truth is in short supply,

there is one place I can go to that I can rely on and it is the garden.

It has been the container of cats and dogs, toddlers and teenagers, swimming and bonfires, love, laughter, rows and tears.

Whatever has happened, the grass has continued to grow, the daffodils to shine, the blackbird to shout his wake and sleeping call from the top of the telegraph pole.  The beech hedge reliably shields me from the road and the willows hold on as tight as they can to stop the garden slipping into the flow.

And now I am starting to repay its loyalty. I am letting nature have its way. I am limiting the mowing and cutting and piling the compost of yesteryear back into the soil to say thank you.

Thank you for your changing constancy, for your circularity, for showing me how to shed, and die and poke my head above soil again and bloom.

Thank you for never judging, for letting me sink my fingers into your soft earth, letting my feet tingle with dew.

I understand now that without you I am nothing. I depend on your air to breathe, your earth to feed me, your water to quench my thirst.

Thank you for your quiet abundant sharing.

When all else seems uncertain I turn to you mother Earth.