The Secret Life of Trees

My friend just told me something rather wonderful about the trees in the forest. Apparently, they are all connected to and support each other.

Even the tiniest tree is part of a wonderful support system that means that it can grow, even in the shade of bigger trees.

The whole forest is connected via an amazing web of yellow and white fungi that carry carbon, water and nutrients from the roots of one tree to the other. The bigger trees provide the most support.

No tree stands alone.

Next time I go for a walk in the woods (there are no forests here where I live), I will be thinking about this incredible ecosystem with the fungi busily helping the trees to keep connected.

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Image Credit » LoggaWiggler via Pixabay

Uncle's Garden

The smell came first. Wallflowers and snapdragons. No adult ever told me I could not pick a head or so to play with. In the scorching sun with no hat on, I had flower puppets that talked and even became friends.

Dropping these, I would walk down meandering cinder paths, my hands reaching out to pull fragrant petals from red and white roses—yellow too—guarded by thorns. I ignored the scratches and entered worlds of castles and fairies and presentations of exotic perfume pressed from the sweet-smelling petals, filling my tiny plastic basket with more that had escaped the bush and fallen to the ground.

The jump over the tiny privet landed me then on a lawn that always seemed patterned with straight lines, freshly cut. With the smell of newly mown grass fresh in the air, I would make my way to jump in and scatter the pile neatly placed by the bin at the end of the garden, then return to the house for a boiled egg in a striped blue egg cup and soldiers of toast on a matching plate, having climbed mountains and crossed valleys in my imagination.

So, to bed. The curtains closing the world of daytime dreams and playtime gardens, and tiredness pulling me into the world of sleep.

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Image Credit » OpenClipartVectors via Pixabay

Blank Canvas Weather

The view from my window today is plain, blank, and rather boring. Yesterday and the day before, a white frost painted the ground white and refused to melt, even in the face of a watery sun. Before that, wind and rain worked interesting patterns in puddles and mud and gave movement and feeling to the scenery.

Today, it is as if the artist has laid down his brush. The sky is white, and the grass, flowers, and trees all look as if they are waiting for an inspiration to sweep the view. Nothing is moving. It is just as if the canvas has been set up, ready, still and waiting, but the painter has not yet arrived.

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Image Credit » marybettiniblank via Pixabay

Will the Storm Pass By?

Looking out of my window, I notice the sky has turned red behind the clouds—a fierce dawn that seems to want to announce a storm. I hear wind howling. Strangely, until I read the news and discover that the wind, rain, and snow will batter much of the country, this area seems not to be affected.

The clouds melt into each other and the sky is orange, but as yet, there is no rain, although I can see wet pavements and grass left over from an earlier fall.

Considering a walk, I watch while the view from my window changes to a strange, grey-blue, and the silence continues. Just below the eaves of the house, I see remaining colour, but now we have a sombre grey morning. The heavens have closed their curtains, and there is no drama in the view at all now. The sky is one plain colour, turning, perhaps, even slightly blue.

I am waiting, watching, and wondering. Will this storm pass by? I think so.

It is silent now, and the wind has ceased to blow. Except, here it comes again—that same howl. The sky is whiter and lighter now, and there is water in the wind.