The plum tree my wife bought me for my fortieth has started showing tiny shoots and leaves, which is a handy metaphor for a new beginning as far as these things go.
It's surprising what such a tiny aspect of the natural world can do for your mood. Sitting in the garden now in the sun has given me a burst of energy I didn't have before. It's like a balm for the mind. Until I moved out of Hitchin, I've never had a garden, aside from a communal one at my first flat, which we never used due to some deep-seated need to hide from our neighbours. It's the same reflex that makes you pretend you've not seen someone you know on the street, only more intense, as you've less reason to chat to the guy who banged on the ceiling the night before because you were listening to Bob Dylan too loudly. Oh, those carefree student days (when I swear no-one smoked wacky baccy).
(For an insight into our antics, my flatmate Mark was once an hour late for his girlfriend because we were trying to pass three satsumas to each other in midair while juggling. Spoiler: we never mastered it.)
So, back to my tree. For the past year, it's been in a pot in the back garden, looking suspiciously like - well - a stick. That or a marker for a tiny shallow grave. The sort of place you'd bury a hamster who won't keep its mouth shut. "Oi, Penfold: what happens in Chez Ephgrave stays in Chez Ephgrave".
The present was no less lovely for its slow progress. Despite staying small, I was still anxious. What if the wind blew it over? What if the dog ran off with it? The second option was less likely as wasn't a slipper or an empty halloumi packet.
But today, it looks very different; it seems, after a turbulent twelve months, it's starting to settle into its new home. I get you, brother. With any luck, its baby trunk will soon gain purchase. And before long, I'll plant it in the garden soil when its bonsai days will be over; because big wood comes to those who wait.