Learning to live seasonally

What my rural life has taught me about seasonality, in life and in my garden

We are the midst of our first spring in our not-so-new home - a mid-terraced late Victorian cottage that we bought and moved into last November, in the depths of a very cold, very dark winter that felt like it was never going to end.

It’s a wholly different way of life here, one that we weren’t entirely prepared for. In our first week, we had to buy emergency torches due to the complete lack of street lighting; all manner of creatures will try their level best to gain access to your home, and we’ve now come to accept that mud splatters will adorn our clothes (and coats, and boots, and even gloves if you accidentally drop them in a muddy puddle) during the wet and wild winter months.

It was a deeply challenging first winter. There were times when I felt that familiar bubble of fear growing and rising in my chest as I tried to find a rhythm in our new home - everything felt stilted and unnatural, as if we weren’t really supposed to be there. While James leaned on his exercise routines and daily habits to keep him grounded, I felt unmoored. I found the short days and near-constant gloominess very, very difficult for the first time ever.

To put another nail in the coffin so to speak, I was struggling in my working life, too. Two client projects came to an end just before Christmas, and I didn’t have anything new to replace them with. I felt out of control, incapable and completely demotivated. This lingering feeling of hopelessness meant that I wasn’t doing my best work for my existing clients either…which of course only made me feel even worse.

Unsurprisingly, the tentative arrival of spring really changed things for me. I started having consistent once-weekly driving lessons and felt my confidence build almost overnight. Bitterly cold, dark mornings surrendered to mild spring sunshine, which made getting out of a warm bed and on to a yoga mat much more enticing. I forced myself outside for daily walks, trudging the fields as the mud dried out and the spring blossoms and daffodils began to bloom. My winter coat had its last outing, replaced by a lighter waterproof. Things were looking up.

As one season gave way to another, the clocks changing from GMT to BST, new clients and projects were landing in my inbox. I realised that we had made it to the growing season, in the garden and in my life.

Things seemed to gather speed in the best, most chaotic way possible after that. My creativity and zest for my work has returned. I feel lighter than I have in months. I’m saying yes, showing up for myself, finding joy and creativity in the every day again. It feels fantastic.

Rural living is inherently seasonal, and just like the ever-changing landscape outside my window, I am fallow in some seasons and abundant in others. The ebbs and flows of our surroundings can teach us such a lot about the nature of change. When we tune into these rhythms, we find it easier to lean into the reality of what we are facing in the moment rather than fighting against it.

Spring has brought with it renewed creativity and joy, a sense of hopefulness that hasn’t been present for quite some time. I hope it will stay long after the warmth of the sun has given way to another chilly autumn, but it’s alright if it doesn’t. I know what to do now: I know that this is just the way of things, that it will pass, and I will be OK.

Thank you as ever for reading. I hope you have a wonderful Sunday!