Sometimes I sit outside and think of all the things I don’t have.
I don’t have room for chickens, or a lawn to lie on in the sunshine. I don’t have a private space to sit in my dressing gown without the neighbours seeing. I don’t have a door I can leave open to wander in and out all day. I don’t have a perfect kitchen garden with perfect rows of perfect vegetables.
And then I think about the things that I do have, but that I don’t want.
A bag of slowly-rotting weeds. Dead stalks where the marigolds grew before the slug came. A dark shady corner where nothing will grow.
And then the sun shines and casts a dappled shade as I write, and a bee lands on my paper, and I think about things that I do have.
I have space to grow.
I can talk to my neighbours as they pass. I have rhubarb, and mint, and blueberries, and fennel, and more lemon balm than I will ever know what to do with. I have a fuchsia bigger than an armchair. I have no need for a lawnmower. I have a place to sit and look at the sky.
I am content.