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23 July 2026 — The Summer That Turned England Yellow

  A quiet day, a small worry, and the gentle truths that steady the heart. Not every feeling needs a story. Some just need space. 23 July. The summer in England is strange this year. Grass that should be green is the colour of straw — dry, sun‑burned, brittle underfoot. The whole landscape looks tired, as if it has been holding its breath for too long. It was that kind of day... I went to the doctor. Ear infection . A small thing, really — but it tugged at something deeper. Does it make me anxious? Does it make me wonder whether I’m enough — as a wife, a mum, a friend? It was that kind of day. There are days when nothing dramatic happens, yet the heart feels heavier. A quiet unease moves through you, like a shift in weather no one else notices. You don’t need to explain it. Not every feeling asks for a story. Some simply want a place to rest. So you sit for a moment. You look at the ordinary things — a glass of water, a folded shirt, the quiet shape of your own hands. And slowly y...
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A Two‑Hour Journey From Winter to Almost‑Spring

Where nature shows us that starting over is never a failure, only a rhythm.

I needed just two hours to travel from wintery Poland to almost‑spring London.

A split image: the top shows a winter brunch scene in the snow, and the bottom shows bright yellow daffodils blooming. Over the image is the quote: “Accept the rhythm of life — it’s wiser than we are.”

I love both places—the quiet, crisp mornings of Wrocław and the soft, early light that London offers in February. When I stepped out of the airport, daffodils in full bloom greeted me like a small, golden choir.

And in that moment, something simple and grounding settled in me: Nature doesn’t rush, doesn’t pretend, and doesn’t perform.

It simply continues—rhythmic, steady, beautiful—no matter our circumstances or moods.

Lately, my inner world has been heavy: the death of my Mum, caring for my elderly father, the ongoing struggle of my brother’s alcoholism—and, quietly in the background, my own long battle with cancer, a journey that takes years and reshapes everything. These responsibilities arrived suddenly, stretching my days and my heart in ways I never expected.

The Stoics loved nature for exactly this reason. They saw it as a teacher, a mirror, and a reminder that life moves in cycles. Winter is not a failure. Spring is not a reward. Both are part of the same whole.

As I walked with my suitcase, I realised I don’t fully know where I’m heading—not in London, but in my life. How to organise everything that now rests on my shoulders. How to move forward without a clear map.

And maybe that’s alright.

Maybe the point is not to know but to stay awake to the small signs:

• the flowers blooming earlier than expected

• the light shifting, almost imperceptibly
• the quiet change inside us when we move from one place to another


A split image: the top shows a bright winter landscape with snow and sunlight, and the bottom shows a spring scene with green grass, a green tree, and warm sun. Over the image is the quote: “Nothing in nature rushes, yet everything happens.”

Today, I’m simply grateful.

For my family—there and here. For my friends. For the red roses my husband bought me for our 33rd Valentine’s Day together. For the good moments and the difficult ones. For the journey. For the contrast. For the reminder that even in uncertainty, nature keeps whispering: “You’re allowed to grow at your own pace.”

Have a lovely day, everyone!

_______________

If this reflection speaks to you, you may also enjoy The Gardens That Teach Us How to Begin Again [https://jollygoodplanet.blogspot.com/2026/03/the-gardens-that-teach-us-how-to-begin.html]—another story about renewal.



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