walking on tippy-toes, until his feet adjust to the cool carpet. It has become a daily ritual, this barefoot walking. As the sun beats down it illuminates the droplets suspended on the tiny green stems and the whole field glitters like Aladdin’s Cave. It is like walking on molten gold. In a matter of weeks walking barefoot will be impossible, like the haze of a dream barely remembered, but until then we will continue our pagan worship of the grassy god beneath our toes.
With excitement I consider the coming months. I have always found the turn of the seasons exhilarating, that unmistakable shift in the energy of the earth that heralds a new season. It is for this reason that May is my favourite month. It stands a proud harbinger to summer, an angel at the gates of glory sounding its golden trumpet. May holds all the promise of summer while offering all the delights of spring. Blossom laden branches scent the days as they perceptibly lengthen and the sun begins its high summer arc. And yet it is a toss-up between May and September, the month that opens the door to autumn and ultimately winter and yet which still cocoons us in golden warmth and long days. We hope for an Indian summer, a welcome extension to our halcyon days, and yet we also wait with baited breath for hoar frost to replace the summer dew. For a carpet of diamonds to crunch upon in our welly clad feet. For mist and fog to weave their magic amongst the falling leaves. For autumn to rise from her summer slumber and gather her paintbrushes, dust off her palette and begin her magnificent transformation. At first just a delicate twinge of rose that colours the edge of a leaf, then catches like a wildfire and spreads scarlet across the trees in bold strokes. Gold and amber and copper and bronze streak through the green summer canopy. As the trees concentrate their strength deep inside their trunk-hearts and the leaves start to curl autumn seizes every brush and paints vivid orange on the burnished brown, splashes crimson and pillar-box and flame amongst the russet.
A year ago I lay in the late-summer meadow, my belly stretched to capacity, offering myself and my unborn fruit to the heavens. I was full of apprehension and excitement. I feared the pain of childbirth, the swift plunge into the unknown. As I lay on the grass I wished to stretch this pleasant limbo as long as possible. I was in no hurry, unlike many I loved my late pregnancy, loved being heavily laden with fruit. I reveled in my womanliness, my fuller breasts, my high proud beach ball. Today, Felix is exactly eleven months old. I look at myself from the other side, across an ocean of change. I see a girl made a woman, made a mother, made whole. I am enraptured by Felix. He is so alive, more than anything I have ever known. He laughs, he points, he touches, he learns, he delights in his newfound knowledge, he strives forward. Spontaneously, without being taught, he has started offering sloppy kisses. Lips unpuckered he leans in, leaving a trail of saliva and a melted heart in his wake. He lavishes affection on everything; us, the cat, his toys. He is full of love, excitement, passion. He is what you can achieve in a year.