Provence? No, Tasmania!
Busy, yet peaceful.
Strong, yet gentle.
Scary, yet also eager to see if I/we can pull it off.
And exciting. Very exciting.
It also feels like heat - the long-awaited summer sun that coaxes the garden into bloom and dries laundry in less than an hour, the towels crispy in the hot air.
And like softness, stroking my sleepy niece’s hair as I read her a bedtime story. Like fresh sheets, no need for the duvet. Like warm sand on the beach that we escape to on the really hot days, throw ourselves into the ocean, revelling in our weightlessness. Like placing my head on my husband’s shoulder after a long day.
And sweet, like ripe seasonal fruit cooked into jam, making my home smell like my grandparents’ did. Of passionfruit kombuchas, lychee bubble teas and lime sparkling waters. Of aromatic lillies opening, their incense-like scent and vibrant pink petals as inviting as a mouth you long to kiss.
And expansive, like the sky when we’re at the beach, peerless silky blue, like glass. Or the sky at night, where we sit outside as the barbecue cools down, mozzies be damned, and gaze in wonder at the stars, and Tom points out planets and constellations. Or the sky as viewed from the window seat on a plane to Sydney, looking down and watching the familiar patchwork of green, mustard and brown fields transform into a glittering city, and how the heart lifted on seeing those fields again on the flight home.
And surprising. In my garden, I have had some unexpected and delightful flowerings. Seeds I don’t remember planting, or that have found their own way into the soil, have sprung up and surprise crops of potatoes, tomatoes and pumpkins are abundant and everywhere.
A good omen, I think. This year, bring on the surprise crops. Bring on joy.