A small robin I found trapped in the chicken coop as I was closing up for the night. I opened the door and watched it fly away. It felt like a fitting end to a day spent reflecting on movement, continuity and the quiet flow of life.
Today, I thought I was going to the park.
I felt the need for fresh air and a walk. Instead, I messaged my allotment friend and found myself driving to the allotment. I arrived before him and sat in the car doing my breathing exercises while I waited.
Looking back, it feels fitting.
I thought the day was heading in one direction. It quietly headed in another.
I wasn't at the allotment for long. I had vegetables to collect from my old plot and an online client later in the day. Yet something about that visit stayed with me.
Some of the vegetables came home with me.
Some were left behind for the new plot holder.
Some were given to a friend from my French lessons.
Some were passed on to another friend.
Some of those vegetables had their own journey. They were given to me by a friend, passed through my allotment friend, came into my hands for a while, and then found their way to two other friends. Even the vegetables seemed to be participating in the same quiet flow.
A few days ago, the new plot holder had messaged asking whether I might consider leaving the fruit trees behind as well.
Until then, I had assumed I would move them.
I had chosen them carefully.
Bought them.
Planted them with my allotment friend.
Watered them with him.
Watched them survive their first winters and settle into the soil.
In my mind, they were coming with me.
Yet somewhere between receiving that message and standing on the plot today, something shifted.
The trees could stay.
They could continue growing where they had already put down roots.
They could become part of somebody else's chapter at the allotment.
And I could begin again with new trees on my new plot.
What struck me was not the money.
The trees are not even fruiting yet.
It was something else.
The trees had already been part of my story.
Now they would become part of somebody else's.
Later, I sent a message to say I had decided to leave them and that I hoped they would be fruitful for him.
As I wrote those words, I realised they captured something I had been reflecting on for quite some time.
Nothing was ending.
The story was simply continuing.
This wasn't the only example.
For a while now, life seems to have been showing me the same pattern from different directions.
I had been wondering what to do about an old shed and looking for the right people to help. I wanted people I could trust.
Then my allotment friend mentioned someone.
Before long, the shed was gone.
The help I needed arrived through a relationship.
Not through endless searching.
Not through a grand plan.
Through people.
Last Friday, I put a cot bed outside.
That cot bed had once been passed on to us.
It held one of the girls.
It served its purpose.
Then it moved on.
On Monday, two bar stools followed.
They too had arrived from another home before finding their way into ours.
As I write this, there is still a cupboard outside.
Part of me suspects it may soon continue its journey as well.
Today, my allotment friend and I helped cover somebody else's plot whilst they are away for a few weeks.
Even the plastic we used had its own story.
It had originally been intended for something entirely different, later discarded, and somehow found its way to the allotment where it now has a new purpose covering weeds.
Another unexpected journey.
Another continuation.
Then there was a photograph that arrived on my phone earlier in the day.
A yellow and green slide.
Somebody no longer needed it.
My allotment friend wanted to know whether the girls might.
I smiled.
Because there it was again.
The same pattern I seemed to be noticing everywhere.
Things moving.
Help moving.
Life moving.
Perhaps I notice it so clearly at the allotment because it is more visible there.
People share plants.
Vegetables.
Tools.
Advice.
Time.
One person grows something and another enjoys the harvest.
A conversation becomes an introduction.
An introduction becomes an opportunity.
Someone needs help.
Someone else turns up.
There is a generosity there that makes these connections easier to see.
One of the things I appreciate most about my allotment friend is that he seems to live that way naturally.
Things flow through him.
Knowledge.
Time.
Opportunities.
Practical help.
A spare tool.
A recommendation.
An introduction.
A helping hand.
Spending time there has made me wonder how I might live a little more like that myself.
Not trying to control every outcome.
Trusting the flow a little more.
October is nearly over now.
The wind has been making itself known over the last few days.
Some plots are winding down.
Others are still full of activity.
Some things are being harvested.
Others are only just beginning.
Nothing feels finished.
Everything feels in motion.
This afternoon, I attended a family session.
There were moments of healing, understanding and growth.
Not dramatic moments.
The quieter kind.
The kind that unfold when people begin to hear one another a little differently.
At one point, we reflected on how healing rarely belongs only to the people sitting in the room.
A shift between two people can influence a child.
A different kind of conversation at home can change the atmosphere of an entire family.
Understanding, like kindness, has a way of travelling beyond its point of origin.
As I am reflecting afterwards I found myself thinking again about the trees.
How one thing can continue long after we step away from it.
I felt honoured to witness that part of the family's journey.
The rest belongs to them. Afterwards, I collected the children, had dinner, and later went outside to close the chicken coop for the night.
Earlier in the day, between meetings, I had let the chickens out.
When I returned in the evening, I noticed something small flying around inside the coop.
I went to get my mobile torch.
A little robin was darting from side to side trying to find its way out.
I suspect it had wandered in earlier when the chickens were free-ranging and then found itself trapped.
I opened the door.
A second later it flew out and disappeared into the dark.
And for some reason, that small moment stayed with me.
The trees.
The vegetables.
The shed.
The slide.
The family session.
The robin.
Not the same stories.
Yet somehow part of the same reflection.
Life continuing.
Life moving through people, places, relationships and seasons.
And us, for a little while, participating in that movement.
🌿💛
M.A.L.I. Neuro-Somatic Practice
Reflect. Reconnect. Grow.
