The way the light falls.

watery dawn, dance of dust, dappled woodland, fields of gold.

Sunlight and shadow in our garden room.

Some of my earliest memories are steeped in a sense of the way the light fell and the feel of the air at the time; these seasonal cues have become my compass during the last few years.

After moving into our home in October 2021, I spent a year tracking the light in various rooms, realising that the low winter sun that shines directly into our back ‘garden room’ bringing the most welcome feeling of apricity, (thankfully) does not enter the room in the same way in the height of summer, due to the sun’s higher angle in the sky.

Apricity in winter.

In the current blur of mothering two young children, where our days are spent in close orbit of each other; simply noticing the season playing out around us is an anchor and way to orient myself.

Right now, I am feeling most at home in the quieter corners and edges of summer, where the light is muted, hazy and often tinged with magic…

A lemon water dawn.

We woke this morning on the stroke of sunrise, 4.55am, to a wash of pale lemon water light illuminating the window frame and spilling onto the wall. Despite the heaviness of my eyes and a quiet plea for my day not to start pre-5am, I felt as though I had been let into the secret of distilled summer light in its purest form.

The watercolour coolness of the early morning light soothed the deepest aches in my body as I made a cradle with my arms, in an attempt to lull my son back to sleep. I felt myself stretch beyond my edges once again, surrendering and softening to what was needed in that tender moment.