The daffodils have begun to show their faces. This astonishes me, given that I never once planted new bulbs. And yet they keep returning. It is an act of neglect with a happy consequence, and I am glad for this. Glad that the usual rules don’t apply in this garden, this corner of the map where the ground is unruly with the roots of an old tree that make it impossible to grow anything but weeds. The daffodils disrupt this, and it is an act of rebellion in my eyes even though I don’t know if this is their language. They aren’t teenagers, stealing off for a smoke and a can of cheap beer. So maybe the word is persistence. Or patience. Or purpose. Or maybe this IS the natural order of things, and I’ve got it all upside down in my world, thinking one action or another is required of me. Haven’t I bloomed when the evidence has pointed elsewhere? Hasn’t my own heart oxygenated not out of effort but simply because I’ve been breathing? Who am I without my exertions? Who am I when I am doing nothing but existing? This morning, I woke so early, before sunrise, then lay in bed watching the sky lighten incrementally. The faintest ribbon, and the band widening across the bay. There was nothing to do but watch it come. And then coffee – another reward—and the cat clambering for breakfast. Morning as a sign of life. Ditto for the daffodils. And now I’m thinking less of what needs saying or doing than what needs witnessing. Where can I put my attention, just to look, just to notice, just to appreciate what doesn’t need my interference? What thrives regardless? What is waking up, without ceremony, in my own garden, despite the old roots and the weeds, or maybe, even, because of them?