Under the birches

It’s the first day of the summer holidays and I’m just sitting here on the patio steps gazing into the garden.  The patio faces east and I am basking in the morning sun, so I must shield my eyes as I try to make out the individual trees that constitute the woodland beyond. The morning peace of murmuring leaves and chirping birds is abruptly broken by the baying and trashing of a group of children exploring the woods, and I smile to myself as they howl like wolves somewhere beyond the trunks of birches, ashes and maples.

I am basking in the morning sun- a lazy feline, a solar panel- charging my batteries. I really should do some housework, but I would rather just sit here listening to the retreating children and the birdsong, than do much else. There are a thousand shades of green in my garden; the hue of the peony which stretches itself over my garden Buddha is very different from the dew cups that envelope the Virgin Mary. And there is a minuscule spider crawling on my hand as I try to write these words.  I try to cox it off, but to no avail.  Apparently it is quite content to sit with me, here in the morning sun. I wonder where the cats are. Charlie was here before, on the patio with me, but the children must have frightened him away. I think he has snuck into the house in search of a comfortable spot for his morning nap.  A bumble bee buzzes past, and it is amazing that I can distinguish this sound against the compact audio wall och screeching children, murmuring trees, and chirping of all the woodland birds that surrounds me.

Or perhaps not.  I like to listen.  A friend once described me as a somewhat occasional conversationalist.  He stood by the kitchen sink filling the kettle as he told me that I converse in bursts, followed by intervals of silence. And I think he is right.  I listen, reflect, and then talk.  The strategy should theoretically guard against a loosely wagging tongue, but in reality doesn’t.  Conversing in bursts is like opening the floodgates of a dam.  Words like rapids tumble and skip and gush forth, and it is near impossible to exert any control. Hence I invariably say something I shouldn’t- something blunt and tactless;  to the easily offended, something interpreted as unkind. So I find that it is better to listen, to refrain from talking, to extend my silence, and limit my bursts of conversation to a minimum.