Touching Treetops

Sometimes I wonder if the trees ever get tired.

To draw on what I consider to be one of the most beautiful sentences ever penned, they are privy to the inexhaustible variety of life.

But whether they are, in fact, exhausted by it, as we sometimes may be, is open to pondering.

It only occurred to me this week, as I sat at my desk in the midst of another long and lovely day (if not in terms of weather at least in terms of work) and my mind has perpetually strayed to the thought ever since.

Despite ostensibly having more time than ever, I’m starting to wonder how I ever managed to lead a life devoid of lockdown. I feel as busy, if not busier than I’ve ever been.

Considering how often we hear of ‘millennial burnout’ or even just ‘burnout’ regardless of the year you were born, I can’t help but wonder if we should tap into a little of our woodlands’ wisdom.

So many of us are accustomed to pushing ourselves to our limits, always doing that little bit more whether it’s because we care, or because we’re ambitious, or because we’re a tricksome combination of both.

Meanwhile, our trees possess impossible might and majesty by simply pacing themselves.

They grow imperceptibly, never attempting to surpass expectation, nor circumvent their circadian rhythms.

They trust in what will be.

And they perceive much more than we could ever hope to see.

Those mottled leaves, those flakes of bark, those delicate sprigs, have, if only briefly, lived a billion lives.

They hear us say “I love you” and they see us as we say “goodbye”.

They are touched by our peals of laughter and they stand by us when we cry.

I suppose you could say this is true of any constant in nature.

But there’s something familiar to be found in those knotted trunks and twisted stems. They’re a source of strength unlike any other; a font of exquisite calm, the kind that only seemingly comes once you’ve seen many a moon wax and wane.

Perhaps experiencing all that human life holds is a privilege.

Then again, perhaps they’re preoccupied with more prodigious things.

Or maybe they simply sway in the breeze, enjoying each passing minute of every passing day.

Flickers and Flurries

As I sit staring out at a fresh blanket of snow, steaming cup of tea in hand, marvelling at the iridescent boughs of a host of trees, I feel compelled to capture a slice of winter’s coruscant beauty.

Few would say there’s joy to be found in our landscape on the many grey days that characterise a British winter.

That is, unless, you know where to look.

The world ostensibly appears to be in hibernation for months on end, having wound down only to leave mud and awkward twigs where once an abundance of life could be found.

But if you creep a little closer, you see creation’s rhythms never really cease.

Everywhere you’ll find little green spears piercing the earth, bearing the promise of snowdrops, crocus, daffodils and the like. Birds busily go about their business, knowing time and tide will overcome them if they fail to find that winter worm.

And every once in a while, the sun will briefly cast those long-awaited winter shadows, its rays responsible for a collective amnesia.

We cling with vigour to the serendipity of a sunny day and suddenly the grey seems far away.

This is winter.

A bright, crisp, invigorating entity, whose magic is as dazzling when we are nine as it is when we are ninety.

Or so I imagine.

There’s nothing cosier than feeling the warmth of the sun in winter, despite having lost all sensitivity in your fingers and toes.

For a long time, I thought it odd that no one had ever thought of a word to encompass this peculiar quality.

Fortunately, my twenty-third year existing in the midst of Mother Nature brought an end to my confusion.

‘Apricity’.

I’ll always remember where, when and how I learned of it.

Naturally, I was out walking on a stunningly chilly day with some friends just before Christmas. As the beating heart of our solar system punctured the clouds, one shared that they’d recently come across the term and it was as though my world became just a little more complete.

The logophile in me couldn’t resist the endearing specificity of the word, which of course led me briefly down a delicious research rabbit hole.

The Merriam-Webster dictionary attributes ‘apricity’ to Henry Cockeram, who either recorded it, or possibly invented it, back in 1623.

As they write, whilst it’s a ‘delightful word for a delightful thing’ it never entered common parlance and as such won’t be found in any modern dictionary, making it all the more delectable.

Knowing there’s a universality to the sensation satisfies me deeply.

It confirms my suspicions that someone, somewhere, will also be basking in the same glow, thinking what I’m thinking.

And despite the fact that we’ll never meet, we’ll always know that for a solitary moment we were perhaps the two spirits most at one in the world.

Into the Ether

I’ve long appreciated Miranda Hart’s social media accounts for bringing a little sunshine to my day and her sporadic emails are no different.

Having recently launched an online shop, with various bits and bobs bearing phrases from the beloved sitcom, Miranda, her lines serve the secondary purpose of subtly showcasing a handful of products that will inevitably make any fan giggle.

But refreshingly, her reason for sending them appears to be to reach more people with a simple message.

Be kind and be gentle; particularly to yourself.

Crudely paraphrased, you could easily make the mistake of dismissing them as another example of ‘snowflakery’ or ‘wellness’.

You may also make the error of thinking it’s all just ‘clever marketing’.

All I can say is sign up to the mailing list before you leap to any conclusion.

I’ve never denied that I’m a tad naïve and perhaps too optimistic for some.

Yet, I genuinely believe these heartfelt paragraphs comes from a tender place. It’s about the only email I receive that envelopes me in calm.

In the midst of what has undeniably been an ever so slightly bizarre year, it’s all the more wonderful to be able to briefly disappear like many a gloved hand into these warm pockets of positivity.

For 2021, her shared wisdom was purely to ‘go gently’.

It’s bringing a smile to my lips as I read it now.

I was actually quite relieved to ‘go gently’, as it were, on New Year’s Eve.

For once I didn’t feel the nightmarish pressure to see and charm as many people as possible whilst simultaneously drinking myself into Prosecco-fuelled oblivion. As fun as that is (my nickname at uni wasn’t ‘Risk’ for nothing) we all know Prosecco is the work of the devil and tastes pretty foul.

Of course I could choose another drink. I frequently do. The point is, I quite enjoyed not having to decide what extortionately priced beverage(s) I should purchase. And I rather reveled in not having to answer the ‘what are you doing for NYE?’ question.

Whilst I know it will have been a great anti-climax for many a party goer, I couldn’t help but feel the breeze as the world gave a collective sigh of relief, not only in saying goodbye to 2020, but in not having to subscribe to this year being ‘the one’ either.

Because unless your resolution is to become Cinderella, not a lot changes at the stroke of midnight.

The world’s essentially just celebrating its birthday. And I don’t know about you, but whenever I wake up having become another year older, I feel fundamentally the same as the person who woke up the day before.

It’s only with hindsight that we find plot points in our lives and craft the story of who we’ve become. And we’re as likely to feel a sudden shift in who we are on a random Thursday as we are on the anniversary of our first breath.

I suppose that’s why once we’ve grown old we don’t recognise the leathery face in the mirror. Even at 23 (almost 24), I’ve sometimes caught myself accidentally misquoting my years, not because I desire to be my younger self, but simply because a latent part of my brain will probably always stubbornly refuse to catch up with reality.

I miss parties. I miss pubs. I miss my loved ones, whether family or friends. I miss meeting strangers and becoming familiar with their habits. I miss wondering whether these new acquaintances may soon become something more or less to me.

I could go on, but I fear this may become at worst morbid and at best even more trivial.

Besides, if our recent history has proven anything, it’s that we’re all exceptionally adaptable, even if we don’t realise it.

And for now, that’s all we need to be.