watching grass grow

of planting a lawn, scarlet fever, and drawing again (sketch included).

from the unfiltered journal of a sensitive mama

2nd May 2026

Scarlet fever. Bleeding noses. A scraped knee. And “that horrible horrible wooden thingy that reeeeally hurt my throat at the doctor’s” — also known as the tongue depressor.

But also slow, leisurely mornings in the garden spent holding a strawberry-patterned little girl, basking in the dappled shade of the olive trees, watching the daisies sway in the breeze, and “standing vewy vewy still so a butterfly will land on us”.

Amidst all this, the swallows are back — they have refurbished last year’s nest and are extending into the rooftop beams above our old front door, now unused, and so undisturbed. Sitting here today, in the bright spaciousness of our new living room, with more windows than we could have wished for, hearing the swallows call out at each other, I can’t help but feel a surge of glowing gratitude — the kind that heals your hurts and brings hope back into your bloodstream.

This time last year, the four of us were still co-existing within a dark one-bed under-roof flat upstairs — the kitchen and living room compound hardly bigger than a double room, furniture and boxes piled up every wall, and two cots stacked between our bed and the wardrobe (we had to move them every time we needed to open the wardrobe or the window).

The works have started in my sister’s flat this spring — her new bedroom is the kitchen-living room that housed us for the best part of the past three years. One bright afternoon this week, as I cuddled a poorly little girl who was taking a recovery nap in our bedroom (directly next door to our old kitchen and still sharing the same thin wall) I listened to the now familiar soundtrack that inevitably accompanies the builders’ arrival and realized just how far we have come. Yes, there are still unfinished parts in the house, and no I am not talking polishing the details — the tiny downstairs toilet is entirely missing its tiny sink, the room above the stairs is in need of custom fitted wall furnture able to maximise its funky structure (boxes and bags are still janga-ed over the explosed iron, concrete and woodwork), we don’t have a door for our bedroom and the hallway is just one level above “garage” and not too far from level “outdoor shed”.

And yet, today life in this higgledy-piggledy farmhouse looks and feels so deliciously different from those early days. There is enough light in every room to brighten even my moodiest days, watching the rain from any window is a balm for the senses, babies can stomp around the length of the downstairs floor to their little hearts’ delight, and we are on our way to having a private garden of our own — which is nothing short of life-saving when you live in a highly sensitive, extremely introverted body.

About two weeks ago, we finally got around to seeding the lawn (after a couple of failed attempts, more linked below) and after many days of spying through the patio doors, hoping and doubting whether anything would grow at all (“encouraged” by naysayers who insist we should have resorted to ant poison like every person in their right mind would do), earlier this week I found myself suddenly squealing in uncontainable delight —“Graaaaaaass, it’s graaass!! We got graaaass!!”. I was promptly joined by two equally loud and excited babies and one very puzzled husband, who had to admit that “indeed, it does seem to be growing…”.

do you have it in purple?

Witnessing grass grow, one miniature blade after the other, has been a nourishing and intimate experience I did not expect to enjoy it this much. Every evening, as the sky turns lilac and the children drift off to dreamlands where the grass is probably pink and sparkly, I step outside, let the gurgling song of the birds and the rustling of the old walnut tree wash over me, and I calmly water the soil. It has become a daily meditation of sorts — tuning into the delights of the living world at my doorstep through every sense of my mody, breathing the evening air in and then out, observing the gentle progress that the grass has made between last night’s moonlight and this evening’s sunset, mentally dividing the lawn into a grid and watering each section thoroughly, watching the color and texture of the soil change.

In a way, nurturing and tending to the very space that will house many of my girls’ childhood games and memories has felt like an extension of my mothering — as if pouring into this handkerchief of land my tenderness, my sweetest care, my motherly devotion is another way of enveloping them with my love, a form of love that will outlast me.

And then, amongst all this mess and magic, I have been drawing again. And a part of me — long silenced — came back to life. And it felt like pure…aliveness. There is no other way to say it. The moment I took out my coloring pencils and sat down with no intention other than to allow myself to be myself, it was like pure life force started pouring through me again after a long draught.

If I look back in time, the darkest seasons of my life have invariably coincided with the extended absence of any drawing or writing. These past couple of years cannot be described as dark — there has been much light in its own way and courage and joy and a steep learning curve of personal and professional development in other areas — however this period has been challenging and drawing or writing have been almost inexistent thoughout it. And for the little girl who always said she’d be an artist and a writer (and a mother with a garden) when she’d grow up, existing for months without regularly sitting with her words and her sketchbooks not surprisingly lead is hardly living at all.

But one morning this week, I chose to prioritise my sketchbook and pencils over whatever else could have taken priority instead. And it felt so natural. Like a fish must feel when it’s returned to water or a bird when it takes to the air. Meant to be.

Now, I haven’t found many chances to progress past this point, between ill children and well…life, but something has shifted (if you usually read my words, you will know that this shift had begun to unfold a while ago) and there is no going back.

Much like the grass in our lawn, I am looking forward to see what happens from here — both on the page and in my life — with hopeful anticipation and a subtle hint of genuine fear, because once again I am drawing up the courage to walk the unbeaten path. But it feels too good to let it go, this time.

unfinished details in coloring pencils on organic tan paper

notes from the garden

The peas we planted a couple of weeks ago have now sprouted, and the first few stalks and leaves are now about 7cm tall — it’s a dwarf variety and I don’t know what to expect height-wise (or in general if i am to be entirely honest). I am looking forward to witnessing the developments — this is our first-ever attempt at growing vegetables and, admittedly, I am largely relying on beginner’s luck.

The sage, which received a hard prune last winter, is now aflush with a bounty of lilac flowers — little girls dutifully kiss and praise their beauty every day. If there ever was a dearly beloved plant, that’s sure to be our sage. Oh, and the rosemary, the rosemary gets plenty of love and appreciation too. We hardly go for a walk without having first said helooo to the wovvmewy.

We have grass!! In our lawn!! Have I mentioned it already?? Real grass! Really growing! From seeds we planted!! Grass!!

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as always, thank you for gifting some of your time to my words.
I am glad you are here.

— with love,
Julia