I felt the heartbeat of a tree today. Now, before you think I’m mad, of course, I know that I didn’t really (or did I?), but for a moment my own heart skipped because, it really felt as if I had.
It has been a day where, although it is cold and the wind is blowing well, the sun is out and the sky is that kind of huge blue which occurs in expanse, in winter. I have a stinking cold but despite this, I cannot help but be drawn outside.
Having perambulated the garden, having a nosy at how things have fared over the weeks in which I have been too busy to be tending to things of flora (perhaps months, is a more accurate time-frame), I dragged one of the garden benches from beside the increasingly falling apart shed, where I had secured it against stronger winds the previous year, and planted it in the sunniest spot at the bottom of the garden.
Wrapped up warm against the cold (apart from my feet which, no matter how many layers I wear just will not defrost) I closed my eyes and felt the warmth of the sun on my face. My eyes did not stay closed for long as I became distracted by a bird somewhere nearby making the most amazing array of noises. I first thought it must be the song thrush that lives at the end of our garden and is often seen whacking snails against old exposed path slabs (now mostly sunken and grown over by grass and moss). But it wasn’t, it was one of our darling starlings that continue to keep us entertained. I have written before about the immense range of noises and imitation sounds that starlings are capable of, and this one was giving me a good earful of his portfolio.
To my left, roughly four metres away, there is an apple tree. Every year I tell it, it will be its last as it is leaning closer to the ground with each season that passes, but it still bears fruit; an apple somewhere between a cooker and an eater and with which we made Scandinavian apple relish this year, for Christmas presents. I always leave some fruit on the trees for wildlife and today I was rewarded for doing so. As I sat attempting to breathe some fresh air into my cold-stuffed head, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. A beautiful female blackbird, feathers a glossy dark chocolate brown, was perched atop one of the hanging apples having a good peck at it. She didn’t seem to care at all that I was so close and neither did the blue tit who alighted on a different apple above her and began pecking away.
I am ashamed to say that one of my first thoughts was that I wished I had my camera with me and contemplated the possibility of a phone picture showing anything discernible. But I knew that even if I did have my camera or tried to take a picture on my phone, the movement itself would frighten away the two diners. And then I was struck with an interesting thought: I was glad I wasn’t able to take a photograph because that meant I just sat there, watching and fully enjoying the sight. I love beautiful and inspiring pictures, but sometimes I wonder if we fall into documenting things rather than experiencing them.
We have been lucky lately in that starlings have been performing murmurations over our garden (I like to think as a thank you for the sheer amount of mealworms and fat balls they’ve had from us). The first time it happened I filmed as much as I could. But the second time, I just watched and in doing so I didn’t just see what was happening I heard the flap and dull thud of wings and feather as they turned, I felt the breeze that they were moving within, I became aware of the cold air on my cheeks and the smell of damp earth and the winter world outside and I noticed the varying hues of blue, grey, pink and purple which made up the palate of the fading sky.
I am currently reading a book called, ‘The Running Hare, The Secret Life of Farmland,’ by John Lewis-Stempel. It is a gorgeous book documenting the life of an agricultural field being given back to nature. But is is also very sad 
as it clearly exposes just what we as humans have done to the land and all that lives in and on it, by means of intense agriculture. As a race, we have learned how to dominate nature. I believe we now need to learn how to share with it. My apples left on the tree may only be a small give-back, but I feel that I got the bigger reward from the action.
The wind blew harder and colder, snow has been tentatively mentioned on the forecast and almost as if in synergy, I spot a clump of snowdrops that are hanging their white heads at the base of a rose.
Heading back to the house, I stop to touch the warm trunk of our smoke bush. The bark is rough and looks like elephant skin. I turn and place my hand on the clean-cut end of a branch I removed from smokey’s neighbour; a cotoneaster (who has grown considerably out of hand and is still in full, green leaf) and that is when I feel a thud. Thinking I was mistaken I close my eyes and press my hand flat against the wood and there it is again: thud, thud, thud. I smile, I laugh at myself a little because in a fraction of a moment it felt as if I was feeling its heartbeat. Common sense kicked in just as quickly; it was just a vibration caused by branches much higher up moving in the wind. Surely?