With my family slumbering away in their beds I arrive downstairs a little after seven to start a new day, push back the long curtains to flood the room with light, and prop open the door to my green garden. After shuffling back to the kitchen to make coffee, I sink into the soft chair with my writing book beside me open and ready for words. On the whole this has become my daily routine, at least during the school summer holidays when I’m lucky to get an hour of peace and quiet before the day begins proper.

Sitting motionless and peering through the open door, I first notice the slender leaves of a tall ornamental grass swaying in the breeze, a Miscanthus, then a drop of dew gently falling to the ground from the leafy tip of a spider plant on the patio table. Above those, long clear rays of light are reaching over the garden fence and illuminating about a third of the garden, the larger remaining space still in shade. The garden is calmly easing itself into the day, much like myself.

With a constant hush of vehicles in the distance, it’s obvious that for many folk the day is already on the move, the sound of the traffic setting a monotonous base tone for the not so great outdoors. For a few moments, noise from the ground is overtaken

by a jet airplane roaring up, probably from Birmingham Airport around twenty miles away. On throttle-back though, it’s back to the steady hush of tyres on tarmac, an occasional bird whistle or pigeon call, and tingling wind chimes from somewhere beyond the fence. Not one particular moment can be described as silent, but it’s calm and pleasant enough.

Considering why the door opening ceremony has become my first activity each morning, I think initially that it could just be from a desire to rid the room of stagnant air caused by closing out the world each night. The doors themselves are glass with long windows beside them, so it’s not like I can’t see my all important garden or get enough light, there’s plenty of each – it must purely be the need for air. That early ‘lets get some fresh air in‘ thought though, which flashes through my mind on entering the room, still feels as if it has more depth, being almost instinctive; although it could just be a summer habit I’m struggling to quit.

Sipping and savouring my coffee, I think deeper and realise that many of the most memorable parts of my childhood occurred outdoors, and with a working life spent in gardens, I’ve definitely enjoyed more time out than in. I guess then as I find myself waking to fathom this connection, this daily need to fling open the doors, I should put aside the idea that its just to wake myself up for a day owned by emails, calendar shuffling and meetings, and focus more on my own need for a closer, truer connection to the garden and outdoors. Maybe it’s not enough just to see the garden and outdoors, but also to hear, feel and breathe it.

Being realistic, I know that summer’s August is fading fast, and the mornings when I can draw comfort and connection from the open back door are limited. I love the descent towards autumn for sure, but soon enough with lowering temperatures, time will come even for me to leave the door closed, bringing an end to the waking air streaming freely through to refresh the room and my senses – my headline route out through an open door to the garden will be broken.

But what shall I do if I can’t catch a pleasant draft now and then during my morning wakeup hour? What shall I do when I look up from the laptop to a closed door, and eventually closed windows too? To be able to step up and float out, which I do mentally and physically most every day is to have freedom – it’s a small bid I grant you, but an important one for me nonetheless. To be able to see and be close to a garden is everything, but to hear the varied sounds and feel the breeze through an open door enriches the connection – to people, to nature and to life itself.

I shall endeavour then to stick with my open door policy for as long as I possibly can, or at least will keep an open window or two for the balance that I know it brings to my days. The relatively distant road noise and the odd barking dog I’ll gladly accept as part of the deal, as well as the less than pleasant smells like farm fertiliser or bonfires that occasionally drift in. I’ll accept them because they will come and go, and when they’ve floated away some peace, tranquility, and hopefully some fresh air will flood back through the door to feed my needy senses and deliver words for my pages.

Maybe, before long, I’ll have to take a morning walk to get that fix of oxygen…

Regards, Gary Webb