I write to you from the early days of this place’s renewal. When I arrived here, the land had been abandoned for too long, tangled in rushes and wild neglect. The soil had been compacted by years of cattle grazing, depressed under heavy hooves. But now, as I plant tree after tree, I watch the rushes retreat, surrendering to the slow and steady return of woodland. It is work that stretches beyond my own lifetime, and perhaps even yours. But I trust that in the seasons to come, roots will deepen, canopies will widen, and the wind through these branches will carry whispers of my hope and labour.
I have also dug two ponds, mirrors of the sky set into the earth. Already, they call to birds, frogs and insects, to the wild things that have always known how to claim what is theirs. Perhaps, as you read this, they have become quiet sanctuaries, where life hums and ripples without rush or urgency.
Seamus Heaney once wrote, “Believe that further shore is reachable from here.” As I stand in the soil, hands dirtied with the work of planting trees, I hold that belief close. The saplings I press into the ground will stretch toward your world, their branches offering shade I will never sit beneath. But I do not plant for myself alone.
Walt Whitman informed us, “Behold, I do not give lectures or a little charity, / When I give I give myself.” And so, I give this land my weekends, my sweat, my care. I give it to you, hoping that you will walk here with wonder, as I do now. I hope you’ll listen to the whispering leaves and feel the hush of growing things all around you. This land, once worn and weary, is finding its way back to itself. In its recovery, in the resilience of each sapling, there is a lesson: nature nurtures us and holds us tight. If we listen, we will find that nature’s hold binds us not only to the earth but to each other, across years and generations.
Mary Oliver asks, “Tell me, what is it you plan to do / with your one wild and precious life?” I have chosen to spend mine in the quiet company of saplings and still water, watching the slow return of balance. I do this because I heard a call, the quiet summons of the land asking to be tended, the whisper of something greater than myself urging me to restore what had been worn down. Every tree planted here is a quiet declaration that the world is worth tending, that the future is worth believing in.
I often dream of the place a hundred years from now. The trees stand tall and unbowed, birds wheel and call against the sky, and the ground is soft with moss and leaves. And I think of you. As you read these words, know that long ago, someone imagined you here. I didn’t just picture you. I heard the whisper of your footsteps approaching, felt the warmth of your breath on my cheek. I imagined it all, heard it all, felt it all. And in that moment, I wished for you a world made wilder, deeper, and more whole.
Consilium 