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Illustration by Catherine Chan
While most gardeners are diving into spring cleanup, I won’t be able to join in. Not yet. I’m on the sofa in our back room looking out the window with my light-sensitive postmigraine eyes onto a corner of our yard.
I’m a window gazer. It’s a survival strategy I’ve adopted over decades of living with several chronic pain conditions. In winter, chronic migraines dominate. They shape my days and shrink my world to the size of my racing mind and pounding heart. So, I look out the window while I wait – wait to feel better, wait for the robins’ song, wait for a new season in my life to begin.
But this isn’t a story of illness or recovery. It’s about how I discovered it’s possible to live a life of peace and contentment alongside chronic pain.
There was a time that I was skeptical about nature’s healing benefits. I certainly wouldn’t have thought looking out a window, seeing the open sky, the red flash of a cardinal or the trees surrounding our yard, could expand my world and lift my spirit. Instead, I read self-help books, travelled from doctors to shamans, took potions, ate kale.
Years passed. When pain persisted, my vision narrowed until my losses overshadowed my loves. I didn’t know where else to turn. But sometimes our saviours are sitting among our struggles. Sometimes, they appear in unexpected places – even in our own backyard.
After a long illness, I’d attempted to start spring garden cleanup. It quickly became apparent I wasn’t ready. The next morning, I grabbed my journal, went to the garden and planted myself in a chair by the birch tree. Little did I realize that from spring to fall of that year, the garden would become my place of rest and healing.
Admittedly, the first morning was more irritating than restful. I couldn’t bear looking at the brown mess of leaves not raked, plants not cut back, shrubs not pruned. I eyed the evergreen euonymus shrub and grumbled. Nothing about it was beautiful – neither its inconspicuous flowers nor its few fall berries.
My complaints were interrupted by the sounds of a robin flapping his wings in the birdbath across from me. He flew onto the lawn. I sat still. We exchanged sideways glances. The robin resumed his work.
This single encounter would change the rhythm of my days. Being early risers, the robin and I met almost daily. Bob gave me a reason to get dressed and get outside. (How could I not name him?!) He soon recognized me, as robins do, through voice, gestures and schedule – especially when food is involved.
At first, I could only manage filling the birdbath. As I grew stronger, I’d dig in a plant, water the area and retreat to my chair. He’d swoop in, happy for the disturbed soil. I loved watching as he’d tilt his head looking for signs of worms before thrusting his beak in the soil – voila! Breakfast. On days I was too sick to go out, I’d hear him singing cheerily, cheer up, cheer up. “I’m trying, I’m trying,” I’d say.
I was surprised by my fondness for Bob. He was a robin seeking sustenance and safety. I was a human looking for nourishment and peace. I wondered who was taking care of whom.
Throughout that summer and fall, I’d loved watching the brown mess of spring transform into a gathering of flowers, pollinators and birds. During slow walks around the garden, I’d observed the almost unobservable: ground-nesting bees, tiny monarch butterfly eggs on a milkweed leaf, a solitary bee inside a hollow stem. All these layers of garden life I’d never noticed before. I was humbled.
When winter arrived, the migraines came on with a vengeance. Once, while lying in what would become my usual postmigraine spot, I heard them before I saw them. The largest flock of robins I’d ever seen landed in the euonymus. In winter, food scarcity is the primary enemy of robins and other winter-flocking birds. Their survival instincts kick in and they exchange their usual diet for berries. The euonymus, bursting with clusters of orange berries, became their feast. Seeing the birds safe and satisfied rekindled something in me I thought I’d lost – joy.
Looking back, I saw how much good had happened during those seasons of rest and healing. Did nature erase my pain? No. But all those small moments of beauty and wonder were like a soothing balm for body, mind and spirit. While in the garden, my litany of fears – isolation, continual loss, the whirr of a world rushing past me – became a background hum. Over time, nature became my foreground. In nature I had found peace and with that came a new perspective.
Today, I’m still ill and still a window gazer. The garden is still my sanctuary. But much has changed in the way I view life with chronic illnesses and the way I garden. It’s early morning as I finish writing this piece. Outside my window a robin sings his dawn song. I remind myself that each season has its purpose and each day brings the possibility – the promise – of renewal.
Rose Roberts lives in Toronto.
