It has been an exceptionally challenging winter. Profound personal loss, multiple global crises, surgery to remove a section of my thigh affected by melanoma, and a perimenopausal body and mind that no longer rebound as they once did have left me feeling not entirely broken, but undeniably fragile.
Finding Solace in Nearby Nature
Much as I did during the Covid lockdowns, I have been deliberately shifting my focus to the nearby natural world for both distraction and comfort. A few days confined to bed, followed by several more propped in the kitchen window seat—a feature I wisely insisted upon when we rebuilt our home years ago—and then gradually extending my hobbling range to the front garden, I have experienced the arrival of spring in ways that are simultaneously limited and infinite.
By focusing ever closer, I have rediscovered that seemingly small things expand precisely in proportion to the attention you afford them.
The Astonishing Force of Bud Burst
This week, I have been delighting in early butterflies, wild garlic appearing in sudden abundance, the first arrivals of migrant birds, and the extraordinary reverse origami of bud burst. While the full greening of the woodland canopy opposite our house remains a few weeks away, there is a remarkable tree on our lawn that put out blossom a fortnight ago and is now coming into leaf.
This tree is supposed to be a greengage, but after a minor accident a couple of years back, the blackthorn rootstock to which it was originally grafted escaped its confines. Now, stems of both species grow vigorously from a single base. Sloes and greengages from one tree is perfectly fine by me, and I cannot help but admire an organism so utterly determined to be itself.
Bud burst stands as one of the most powerful forces in all of nature. Once those leaves emerge, there is absolutely no way they are ever going back. The hydraulic pressure, or turgor, inside the epidermal cells of an unfurling leaf can exceed the inflation pressure of a car tyre several times over. This force is surpassed only by the pressure in the growing tips of roots and shoots, which is potent enough to burst through solid tarmac.
The Hidden Superpowers of Fragile Things
I love these slightly absurd yet arresting comparisons, often the staple of children's reference books: spider silk possesses the tensile strength of steel; an ant can carry fifty times its own body weight; a leaping froghopper generates and survives acceleration forces five hundred times that of gravity—fighter pilots typically black out at just ten times.
It is profoundly good to remember that fragile things can possess hidden, extraordinary superpowers. Observing the determined burst of life from a simple bud, or the stubborn growth of a grafted tree, serves as a powerful metaphor for resilience in the face of personal and global adversity.
