Over the past week, I’ve noticed how quickly the mind moves to solving. A small issue presents itself — in the garden, in the home, in conversation — and almost immediately, there’s a pull to act, to fix, to decide. But not all situations need a solution straight away. Sometimes what’s needed first is simply to notice what is actually happening. Where have you noticed yourself moving quickly to solve or act this week? What changes when you pause instead? You’re welcome to share if it feels helpful, or simply sit with the question over the coming days.

May brings us into relationship — with people, places, and the wider systems we’re part of. This month’s small shift is Connection & reciprocity. Where does exchange feel nourishing? Where does it feel unbalanced? At this time of year, it’s easy to see these relationships more clearly on the land. Here on the croft, the chickens are moving periodically through the garden spaces — scratching, turning the soil, eating pests, and leaving fertility behind them as they go. In return, we make sure they are fed, watered, safe, and content. What they give back comes not through force, but through being part of the system. The same is true with the goats. As we move into milking, there’s a deepening of that relationship — one that relies on trust, consistency, and care. Even the swallows, newly returned, are part of this web. We offer them a safe place to nest, and in turn they sweep through the air, feeding on the midges that thrive in our damp climate. None of these relationships stand alone. They form quiet cycles — each part supporting the others in ways that are often subtle, but deeply important. This month’s theme of connection and reciprocity also asks something of how we see. Many of the plants we pass by every day are already in relationship with us — we just don’t always recognise it. I’ve been working on a small seasonal guide called Seeing Edimentals, which will be ready shortly. It focuses on a handful of familiar garden plants — hostas, magnolia, goldenrod, pink purslane, and mahonia — all of which have simple culinary uses at this time of year. What interests me isn’t just that they’re edible, but what changes when we begin to see them differently. A plant that was once ornamental becomes part of a wider system: something that can nourish, support, and be supported in return. That shift in perception opens up new possibilities — not through adding more, but through recognising more. If you’d like to explore this when it’s ready, I’ll share it in the community over the coming days.

There’s always more going on than we first notice. Orientation. Aspect. Shelter. Edge. The land is always speaking— we just need to learn how to see. As we move from how we think into how we see, take a few moments this week to pause in a familiar place. What do you notice that you might have missed before? • Where is the light falling? • Where does shade persist? • What’s being protected—or exposed? • What patterns are shaping what grows? No need to analyse deeply—just begin by noticing. If you’d like to share a photo or a few reflections, I’d love to see what you'reseeing.

At this time of year, there’s a natural pull to expand — to sow more, do more, begin more. But many of us are already tending a great deal. Family, ageing parents, land, animals, work, students… Each one a living system requiring care, attention, and energy. When we overextend, something gets neglected. And often it’s not the obvious things. It’s the quieter layers: - relationships that need time rather than efficiency - our own energy and capacity - thoughts and patterns that shape how we respond to everything else Left untended, these don’t stay still — they grow, just not always in the direction we would choose. This is where the foundations of practice matter. Learning how we think and how we see (PP1 & PP2) isn’t just about land. It’s about recognising what is actually present — both visible and invisible — and responding with care. A few prompts for this week: What am I already responsible for tending? (name it honestly) Where is something asking quietly for attention? What feels slightly “off course” but still recoverable? What small act of care would make a difference here? Small, attentive shifts now prevent much bigger interventions later. That’s tending in practice.

April: Tending what’s already growing I’ve been thinking about the difference between consistency and intensity. Around here, many “gardening” services arrive with a van full of power tools. Everything is cut back hard, cleared quickly, loaded up… and taken away. Then the cycle repeats a few weeks later. It looks efficient. But I’m not convinced it serves the land — or the people — particularly well. My approach is much quieter. I tend to keep secateurs in my pocket and move slowly through the garden whenever I’m outside. A snip here, a small adjustment there. Almost daily, when the weather allows. Over time, this light, consistent attention: – keeps things in shape – provides cuttings for propagation – creates mulch – feeds livestock – returns nutrients back into the system No petrol. No noise. No sudden shock to the landscape. Just small, ongoing care. It’s easy to assume that doing things faster or more forcefully is somehow better. But in many cases, it’s simply more visible — not more effective. Tending asks something different of us: patience, presence, and a willingness to work with what’s already here. Small, steady actions don’t look dramatic. But they’re what allow systems — and relationships — to truly flourish. This is the kind of thinking behind the Small Shifts approach — learning to notice, then respond with care.