Just bluebells

A walk to the local bluebell wood was in order this weekend (as a well deserved break from gardening). Its on top of a hill, and on one of the rides my girls used to do on their horses. The fields to one side of it are full of boisterous young lambs, whose mothers seem to be constantly anxiously calling them back from riotous play. We walked slowly up the hill, pausing now and then to look back at the view and to surreptiously catch our breath. The trees are lovely right now.

I've got a bit nostalgic about bluebells in the last few years. Not for the bluebells of my youth, no, I grew up in London so only saw them on occasion in Kew Gardens. But they became a sort of symbol for the sweetness in life I thought I was lacking. In fact, I don't think I could see the flowers themselves at all. All I was seeing and feeling was the emotions brought up by them.

This spring, though, I could look at them and enjoy their beauty again. Being in the moment - a genuine smile for them. You can tell your head what to think, but you cant fool your heart. But the tugging at my heartstrings was gone. I think I've seen my old dreams for what they are too. And along with that has come a measure of acceptance - that life is what you make of it, and indeed ultimately, what you choose it to be. And it is a lovely world, if only we let it be - and let ourselves Be.