69) Tired
Chances are I’ll sleep well tonight. I took advantage of the warm spring weather and hiked for hours this afternoon. I then spent an hour or more in the garden. All that sunshine and fresh air and exercise have tired me out. Truth be told, I limped into the weekend. Happily limped, I should add, after a week of late nights in the office, medical appointments, and catching up with friends. Since Alan went back to New Zealand a fortnight ago, the house has been empty, and I’ve been grateful for all the social contact of recent days.
I am tired though. I expected I’d lie in this morning. Despite switching off the alarm clock, my body woke me at precisely 7:30 as if the alarm had sounded anyway. I worked my way through the weekend household chores and then set off into the bush.
Since being swooped by that magpie three weeks ago, and the resulting bike crash, I’ve been wary of birds in the bush. New fears aside, Manning Reserve still managed to charm me with its views and native orchids. Three species of sun orchid in flower and one in bud today. This really is my favourite time of the year.
After Manning Reserve, I drove out to Kuitpo and wandered the track while listening to the wind through the pines. Only last night I was talking with friends about hearing the rhythm of the ocean while walking in Aldinga Scrub. The healing sounds of nature.
Back home, my garden was quieter, but full of life. The silver birch is beginning to show new leaves, the first buds have appeared on the roses, and the ceanothus and sweet peas are full of pollinators. The valerian is busy with bees, and growing stronger each year from the cuttings Ann gave me. The marigolds in pots are making a great show of colour. I can picture Midge out in the garden now that the warmer weather is here.
I am tired of living alone.
For a couple of weeks the ceanothus fills the bay window. And every time I walk into the living room its bright blue greets me. I planted the paler one with variegated leaves in the back garden in Elborough years ago. Remembering those days brings an ache in my chest. I loved that place. I loved that time in my life.
A dear friend in Ireland sent me a photo this week of his garden in Wexford – a neat hedge, a pot of lavender on the table beside a copy of my book. It made me smile. Love reaches me from far and wide. And a part of me is there beside the sea on the other side of the world.
An old friend in Ecuador sent greetings and ordered a copy of my book this week. My humble words about the spiritual life appearing in far flung corners. My words have travelled further than I have.
I sent the last half dozen copies from the initial print run up to the Franciscan retreat. I will join with them in saying the Daily Office and obedience next weekend synchronously from my little cottage, before disappearing into the bush where everything is prayer. Writes Wendell,
“ For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.”[1]
The night before last I shared an hour of fellowship over a glass of wine with a friend. Earlier, upon hearing news of my bike crash and broken bones, he sent me a message, “I’m at an early Mass at St Ignatius parish and offering this Holy Mass for you.” What it is to be remembered and carried in prayer.
I know nature’s embrace. I am known and loved by friends.
But I remember Bren and so many friends in that house in Elborough. And I see Alan on the sofa next to the bay window where the ceanothus is in full riot. I recall Midge out in the back garden. And I’m tired of living alone.
***
Olly Ponsonby, September 2026
[1] Wendell Berry, “The Peace of Wild Things” in Openings, (New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1968.)