I thrive on sunshine. On this cloudy cool January day I look to the window and see the ten lemon-scented gums which were planted around 20 years ago. They are beautiful throughout the year. Tall and straight, with their marvellous bark which changes from green to soft pink, and then peels away to reveal the white trunks which are their trademark. Their lemon-scented canopy of dark green leaves is a mecca for birds in summer when the white flowers are rich with nectar. This line of trees can be seen from beyond our garden. They are a landmark, slightly taller than most of the other trees in the area. I don’t feel any sense of ownership of these trees. After I leave my garden they will remain, even if the less permanent plants die or are replaced by a new owner who inherits it. These trees too, will one day die, but compared to a human life, they seem infinite.

The sweet and vivid memories of sun and summer lighten some of the heaviness the last year has held for us. There is no need to recount details; they are variations on a theme I have written of before. Whether personal or societal, they have to do with brokenness, incompleteness, and the unbearably long road to reconciliation. Sadness is a more prevalent theme in the Christmas letters we have received so far this year. We are all getting older. Sad events happen more frequently; but perhaps also we are increasingly aware how easy it is to be more self-centred, less caring of others, when times are tough. For me the challenge is to retain a healthy perspective.

Now I am measuring the last year's passage with other sunlit memories. In the midst of the heavy rains of November, I recall one glorious purple and blue early Saturday morning standing in the garden at Tolmie overlooking the Delatite Valley, watching the mist mingling with sun, "season of mists and mellow fruitfulness" and later in the day the sun gilding and sharpening images - a Mediterranean sun - words fail, better left in the brushes of the painters in oil - heat lingering into the evening, long after it has disappeared. Ah, the remembrance warms the very bones...