.png){kind=logo}
A week of welcome change
There’s certainly been a shift in the weather this week.
After what has felt like an endless stretch of dry, parched summer, a couple of days of torrential rain and one huge storm have brought back something I hadn't realised quite how much I'd missed: greenery.
The hay-like grass is recovering, showing its sheer resilience. Sagging leaves are standing a little prouder and everything somehow looks brighter, as though the landscape has had a much-needed deep cleanse.
Our back lawn is lush and green again. The south-facing front lawn, exposed to much harsher conditions throughout the summer, hasn't recovered nearly as well.
The same rain, falling only a few metres apart, but eliciting a very different response.
There's something in that.
Sometimes recovery isn't simply about what happens to us, but the conditions in which we're trying to recover.
Elsewhere, the rain may have come too late. The potato plants are drooping and dying back in protest, although some surprisingly large potatoes are already pushing themselves into view at the tops of the troughs. Perhaps there is more going on beneath the surface than appearances suggest.
Along the river, things are changing too.
The weather is still humid and the birds remain quieter than usual, although there are lapwings and green sandpipers, and linnets seem to be everywhere. Our garden, meanwhile, is busy with tits, finches, robins, blackbirds and gangs of noisy starlings.
Every time we've ventured out this week we've encountered a roe deer family - a mother and her two fawns, cautiously watching us before deciding we've come quite close enough and disappearing into the undergrowth.
Herons and egrets seem more conspicuous again, sometimes perched high in the trees surveying the water below. Cormorants continue to sit above the ponds, wings spread as they dry themselves.
The rain has also brought back some of the smaller inhabitants that had largely disappeared during the drought. Slugs and snails are everywhere again, although we've still seen no frogs or toads this year. Usually there are hundreds, so their absence feels particularly noticeable.
The dragonflies and butterflies have become fewer as the temperature has dropped, while moths are plentiful. And this week I spotted something else I've been waiting for: the first fungi beginning to push through along the riverbank.
Autumn is beginning to announce itself.
Soon, if previous years are anything to go by, the geese will arrive in their hundreds, filling the ponds with their raucous squabbling. I'm curious to see what else appears over the next few weeks.
The ponds themselves desperately need replenishing. Rain falling much further north can eventually work its way down the river system towards us, and if levels rise sufficiently, water will spill through the channels and begin filling them again.
Another reminder that what happens in one place can create change somewhere else entirely.
Not every consequence of the rain has been quite so poetic.
It also activated the human waste fertiliser that had been sitting on the harvested fields waiting to be washed into the soil. For a couple of days, the smell across the village was almost unbearable. Rejuvenation, it seems, isn't always fragrant.
Personally, though, I've welcomed the change, if not the smell.
We were out walking at the weekend when a dramatic storm began gathering around us. The clouds grew darker and increasingly ominous until the first bolt of lightning pierced the sky.
I thought it was fascinating and stopped to try to capture the lightning on video.
My son was rather less impressed and suggested that admiring the atmospheric conditions might be better done from home.
His sense of urgency was well placed. We made it back just before the deluge.
Change has been happening elsewhere too.
I've spent part of this week working alongside a couple of fellow freelancers on what could become an exciting piece of work. I've really enjoyed being around people who bring different experience, creativity, perspectives and strengths to the table.
Perhaps that's another thing I'm learning: good collaboration isn't about everyone being good at the same things. It's about recognising what each person brings, being willing to listen differently, and creating something together that none of us would have produced alone.
Whatever the outcome of this particular opportunity, the experience itself has been worthwhile.
I also caught up with a peer group of coaches for a useful conversation about our businesses, where they're heading and what might come next. There is something energising about spending time with people who understand the uncertainty of building something of your own - and who inspire you to keep going.
Change is definitely in the air.
Despite the parched landscape, summer has been an unexpectedly rich season for me personally. Relationships have been renewed, particularly within my family, and some connections that once felt fragile are becoming stronger. I'm looking forward to continuing to nurture them as we move into autumn.
There are other things I want to nurture too.
My postgraduate work needs some attention. I want to become more proactive about promoting my coaching business and exploring some of the ideas I've had around coaching-inspired walking groups and opportunities to bring people together outdoors in nature.
I've also decided to put more attention back into my health and fitness. My Achilles injury disrupted the routines that had previously served me well and, somewhere along the way, they slipped further than I'd intended.
I don't need a new me. I need to look after the existing one a little better.
Unexpectedly, another small shoot has appeared.
Listening to my nephews read to me, combined with the hours I spend wandering along the river noticing its inhabitants and visitors, has given me an idea for a children's book.
Years ago, I used to draw and paint. Those skills have been dormant for quite a long time, but I'm wondering whether it might be fun to wake them up again.
I even have a possible title: ‘Real Tales of the Riverbank’.
There is certainly no shortage of material. The errant duckling already has a story. So does the seemingly endless gosling train. Then there are the swans, geese, deer, kestrels, foxes, herons and all the other characters I've encountered along the way.
Will anything come of it?
I have absolutely no idea.
Maybe that's the point.
Not every new idea needs an immediate plan, an outcome or a measure of success. Sometimes we can just notice what is beginning to emerge and give it enough space to see whether it grows.
The rain has returned. The grass is greening. Fungi are beginning to appear. The geese and other winter visitors will soon be on their way.
Some things have recovered quickly. Some will take longer. Some may not recover at all. And somewhere beneath the surface, entirely new things are beginning to grow.
Perhaps that's what changing seasons invite us to do too.
To notice what has run its course.
To tend to what still matters.
And to remain curious about what might emerge next.
If you’re noticing a change of season of your own - something ending, something shifting, or perhaps the first signs of something new beginning to emerge - coaching can offer the space to explore it without needing to know exactly where it will lead. If that sounds useful, you’re always welcome to get in touch for a discovery conversation.
Comments