A little bit of Wilding

The garden's getting away from me. I like it's nonchalant wildness. But also, when our gardener gets back from leave, He'll mow the lawn so that the wildness of the veld grasses and the chaos of the burgeoning flower beds will seem curated. I'll walk a bit more confidently knowing that if I stick to the paths, I'm unlikely to step on a frog or a snake. If I want to venture into the wild verges, I'll go slowly, attentively, looking for threats or treats, and usually, in this rainy summer weather, I'll find a little colony of mushrooms growing.

And at night, where things are not as they seem, there is the better journey of standing very still and listening. Frogs, night birds, insects, the swish of a bat zooming past my head. Or if it's too cold, listen to the house tick, the dogs breathe.

The only rule - don't wake anyone else up! Breathe at the open window, night air, well rested, moist and cool. Close the kitchen door, slowly, not making a sound, so that I can savor the last of the ice-cream, let the kettle boil. Fish out the teabag with my fingers - no teaspoon alarms. Dance, but only to the music in my head. Be alone, properly.

Blessed stillness. Quiet, and feet rooted, a rest-at-home time. Journey's end for now, new ones will come. If I were the journey it would be such an epic succession of walking in circles. What if there was no journey? What if I just had to get comfortable with where I am? What if, instead of compelling myself to move, I just became still? More likely sometimes the one, sometimes the other.

This beginning time of chroning, children launched, each with wild seeds firmly planted in their hearts - that job is done. Now, I get to observe the changes in me, in my body, my mind, my heart. I get to catalogue and file the lessons learned from the Mother and the Maiden, because I'll still need to access them for children, for grandchildren.

Transitional me: chronic over-thinking balanced by an in-the-now creative muse. A forgiving heart that learned to be ruthless. Earthy paint under my fingernails while I mentally spar with angels. I'll protect you while you're helpless and throw you out if you betray me twice. I'll make a chocolate ganache torte and have just one slice. I'll be dreaming a million things, and tell you we're out of milk.

Waking up with a head full of dreams and visions that take more than an hour to clear, how can I be expected to decide what I want for breakfast?

The answers become less important, the questions become so complex, they dissolve. A regular certainty - the smile on my face when I meet a new kind of grass, find the veld flower I chatted to last year this time, discover the hiding place of a frog, or a mushroom.