Creative writing submission from the Rest Less community – submit your entry here.
Two nights ago, I found myself out in the garden with the doglets just before dusk. The wind was like a naughty child, loud and mischievous, rocking hanging baskets and shaking both gates on their hinges. But it wasn’t cold, and with the Sun going down, making herself ready for sleep, there was a beautiful softness to the light – a kind of muted vibrancy that brought everything into sharp focus.
Smiling, I stopped in my tracks and talking out loud to the beasties (as I always do), I expressed my delight and suggested that we sit awhile.
Settling myself into a Victorian wrought iron frame chair, I pulled my shawl around me and made myself comfortable. My dog Arthur came pootling over, pushing himself between my knees to rest his head on my thigh to have his ears fondled, as his sister, Ila, wandered around, nose active, hoping that somewhere in the garden a seagull might have accidentally dropped a bun as it flew overhead, indomitably optimistic.
There was that strange, slightly eerie silence that descends just before nightfall. Only the odd bird calls could be heard; the main focus was the faint rustle of plant stems, not yet in leaf, as they moved, gently growing in preparation to become their true selves. I love this time of day, unlike deep in the nighttime which can sometimes catch me unawares, there’s never a sense of fear, of doubt about whether I’m truly on my own.
I’ve always felt the same way. I can be spooked, of course, but it’s not the ghoulies, ghosties, and things that go bump in the night that raise the tiny hairs, like soldiers, on the back of my neck, not at all – it’s human beings I fear.
All my life, though the dark gives me the willies, I’ve always found that sitting in my own garden with my dogs (well one actually, Ila crawls into the warm patch left in the bed), has afforded me a place of safety. A place where no matter the time of night, I can lay down under the stars, relax, and drift off into soundless sleep.
This is in contrast to my bedroom, where sleep crawls off on stockinged feet to roam the house, leaving me tossing and turning, frustration mounting. At night, the sky appears with its twinkling stars to gently cradle me in its embrace, the soft sounds of a snuffling hedgehog or the neighbour’s cat doing her rounds, simply part of a lullaby.
Though I love the nighttime when feeling safe, dusk and dawn are my most favourite times of the day, so similar in many ways and yet equally, distinctly different. I think it’s the stillness, as Simon and Garfunkle described it: “the sound of silence”. There’s a sense of being utterly alone in the world, small and insignificant when compared to the Sun, rising and falling, working with her sister the Moon to influence the tides.
Everything seems deliciously fragile, gently graceful against the backdrop of life. Old, weathered brick walls seem softly muted as nature’s bounty becomes faintly ethereal. It’s like the normal, solid rules of physical objects just melt away, leaving a vague, frangible outline that might disappear completely at any moment.
Spending time together with just the dogs and my thoughts, I remember when I first moved into this house; having run away, taken early retirement, and literally left everything I’d ever known behind me. So much was unfamiliar, up in the air, all certainties abandoned, and yet, the first time I sat in this garden at dusk with a cup of tea, I knew I’d be OK.
I knew that if I was patient with myself, was kinder, and less judgemental, I could not only find a way through, but could find a new happiness. I remember the fear, the fluttering of my heart, like a tiny bird fighting to get out of my chest as packing up my car and securing the dogs, I left London for what I knew would be the last time.
I remember the deep sense of sadness that permeated my bones and threatened to break me from within. But I didn’t break. And though I walked for miles each day at first – desperate to walk away my grief – so that even the dogs were tired, I found myself again. Out in the countryside, over Came Fields, discovering the power of nature, the healing balm of warm sun, gentle rain, strong winds, all with its accompanying flora and fauna, I learned not just to make a new life here, but to love it.
Of course, as Arthur purrs gently in my lap, his warm breath like toasted biscuits, I’m acutely aware that without him, things may not have turned out the way that they did. He was just a youngster when I moved here and with so much time on my hands, I started an email group which I called ‘The Arthur’s Adventures’, writing daily as together we rediscovered ourselves. And that, as they say, was just the beginning!
Thinking about those early days allows me to see just how far we’ve come and makes me smile. It’s only then that I notice that the light has faded, disappeared into shadows of lightlessness. Around my garden solar balls have come to life, twinkling magically to guide our way back into the house. Ila pushes me with a cold nose and Arthur shifts, breaking the moment and, together, we gather ourselves up and take, with our physical selves, our thoughts inside, closing the back door behind us.
Are you feeling creative? We are proud to have a hugely talented community on Rest Less, which is why we’re so excited to open up a section of the site dedicated to showcasing the wonderful and diverse writing of our members. If you have a piece of creative writing that you’d like to share with the Rest Less community – you can do so here.