Speaker 1: Welcome and thank you for allowing us to share this
Speaker 1: quiet time with you. This audiobook novel is intended as
Speaker 1: a gentle companion, a way to help weave a peaceful
Speaker 1: atmosphere around you as you unwind. Our hope is to
Speaker 1: provide a sanctuary of calm, a quiet space for your
Speaker 1: mind to rest at the end of the day. In
Speaker 1: this audiobook novel, a journal of quiet Garden Noticings, we
Speaker 1: will step into the hushed tranquility of a small walled garden.
Speaker 1: We will join Leo in his simple daily ritual of
Speaker 1: quiet observation, where the smallest details, the texture of moss,
Speaker 1: the path of a snail, the soft hum of bees
Speaker 1: become sources of profound peace and wonder. Should you find
Speaker 1: comfort here and wish for more moments like this, perhaps
Speaker 1: consider liking and subscribing before you settle in fully. It
Speaker 1: allows others to discover this peaceful space as well. And
Speaker 1: now take a soft breath, let your shoulders relax, and
Speaker 1: allow yourself to be guided into the quiet beauty of
Speaker 1: the garden. Chapter one, the sun warmed bench. The old
Speaker 1: stone path that led from the cottage door to the
Speaker 1: garden was cool underfoot, even as the late morning sun
Speaker 1: began to assert its gentle warmth. Each stone was familiar,
Speaker 1: its surface worn smoothed by years of passage, its edges
Speaker 1: softened by creeping patches of mass. Leo moved slowly, his
Speaker 1: steps measured and quiet. The only sound a soft scuff
Speaker 1: against the stone, a gentle disturbance in the garden's prevailing stillness.
Speaker 1: The air itself felt soft, carrying the faint, clean scent
Speaker 1: of damp earth and the sweet perfume of distant honeysuckle.
Speaker 1: Climbing the far wall, he was heading for his destination,
Speaker 1: a place of quiet ritual. There it was nestled under
Speaker 1: the sprawling branches of the old apple tree. The bench
Speaker 1: it was made of simple weathered wood, turned a silvery
Speaker 1: gray by countless seasons of sun and rain. To day,
Speaker 1: a wide, generous patch of sunlight fell directly across its seat,
Speaker 1: transforming the aged wood into a welcoming island of warmth.
Speaker 1: As Leo approached, a small sparrow, who had been perched
Speaker 1: on the backrest, took flight with a soft flutter of wings,
Speaker 1: its departure leaving the scene in perfect tranquility. The garden
Speaker 1: seemed to exhale in the quiet that followed. He sat,
Speaker 1: and the bench offered its familiar, gentle creek, a sound
Speaker 1: of welcome, of settling in the warmth of the sun.
Speaker 1: Soaked wood seeped through his clothes, a pleasant spreading sensation
Speaker 1: across his back. He let his hands rest on the
Speaker 1: seat beside him, feeling the slightly rough, grainy texture of
Speaker 1: the wood, its surface filled with the tiny ridges and
Speaker 1: valleys of its history. Above, the leaves of the apple
Speaker 1: tree rustled in apparely, their breeze, their movement creating a slow,
Speaker 1: mesmerizing dance of light and shadow on the ground before him.
Speaker 1: A single dappled spot of light trembled on the back
Speaker 1: of his hand. From the simple canvas bag at his side,
Speaker 1: he withdrew his journal. It was a comforting weight in
Speaker 1: his hands, its cover a dark green cloth, soft and
Speaker 1: slightly frayed at the corners. He ran a thumb over
Speaker 1: the cover's smooth, yielding surface before opening it. The pages
Speaker 1: inside were thick and creamy, and they made a soft,
Speaker 1: satisfying rustle. As he turned to a fresh empty spread,
Speaker 1: the air held the faintest scent of old paper and
Speaker 1: the graphite from his previous sketches. A smell that was
Speaker 1: intertwined with the garden's own peaceful aroma. He took a slow,
Speaker 1: deep breath, the kind he always took before beginning. It
Speaker 1: was a way of marking the transition from doing to
Speaker 1: simply being, a conscious decision to attune himself to the
Speaker 1: garden's quiet rhythm. His gaze drifted, not searching for anything
Speaker 1: in particular, but simply allowing itself to be drawn. It
Speaker 1: passed over the tall stalks of delphiniums, their blue flowers
Speaker 1: like small pieces of the sky, and across the soft
Speaker 1: green expanse of the small lawn. He was in no hurry.
Speaker 1: The garden had all the time in the world, and
Speaker 1: for now, so did he. His ieas came to rest
Speaker 1: on a large flat stone at the base of the
Speaker 1: apple tree. Upon it grew a thriving colony of moss.
Speaker 1: In the direct sunlight, it was not merely green. It
Speaker 1: was a complex tapestry of color. There were shades of
Speaker 1: deep forest green in its shaded crevices, vibrant lime where
Speaker 1: the sun hid it directly, and even tiny flecks of
Speaker 1: gold and chartruse. It looked like a miniature velvet landscape,
Speaker 1: soft and inviting, this, he decided would be the first
Speaker 1: noticing of the day. He picked up the soft graphite
Speaker 1: pencil that was tucked into the journal's spine. Its wooden
Speaker 1: barrel was smooth and cool against his fingers. He looked
Speaker 1: from the moss to the empty page, then back again.
Speaker 1: He wasn't trying to create a perfect botanical illustration, but
Speaker 1: rather to capture the feeling of it, the softness, the density,
Speaker 1: the way it clung so tenaciously to the hard surface
Speaker 1: of the stone. His gaze softened, taking in the whole
Speaker 1: of its form, the gentle roundness of its edges. With
Speaker 1: a quiet sense of purpose, his hand began to move.
Speaker 1: The pencil made a faint whispering sound as its tip
Speaker 1: met the paper. He started with a light, looping outline,
Speaker 1: suggesting the moss's gentle, mounded shape. Then, with small, soft strokes,
Speaker 1: he began to build up the texture, creating layers of
Speaker 1: shading that hinted at the deep, plush pile of the
Speaker 1: living plant, the world outside, the garden outside. This simple
Speaker 1: act of observation simply fell away, leaving only the sun,
Speaker 1: the bench, the journal, and the quiet, wondrous life of
Speaker 1: the moss on the stone. Chapter two the snail silver path.
Speaker 1: After some time spent observing the moss LEO closed his journal,
Speaker 1: placing it beside him on the warm bench. He allowed
Speaker 1: his gaze to wander once more, his attention now free
Speaker 1: to drift. The sun had moved slightly higher in the sky,
Speaker 1: and the patterns of light and shadow under the apple
Speaker 1: tree had shifted, creating a new geography. On the garden floor,
Speaker 1: a gentle breeze a little more assertive now stirred the
Speaker 1: broad ribbed leaves of a hostile plant growing in a
Speaker 1: shaded patch near the brick wall. It was on one
Speaker 1: of those leaves that a glint of light caught his eye.
Speaker 1: He rose from the bench, the wood giving another soft creek,
Speaker 1: and walked quietly over to the plant. Kneeling on the
Speaker 1: soft grass, he peered closer. There, Traversing the waxy, deep
Speaker 1: green surface of a hostile leaf was a delicate, shimmering line,
Speaker 1: the unmistakable trail of a snail. It caught the ambient
Speaker 1: light and broke it into faint, purlescent colors, a temporary
Speaker 1: inscription of a slow and steady journey. The trail led
Speaker 1: from the leaf's edge to its center, a perfect glistening
Speaker 1: record of silent effort. Following the trail with his eyes,
Speaker 1: he soon found its creator, a small garden snail. Its
Speaker 1: shell a beautiful whirled pattern of pale brown and cream,
Speaker 1: was moving with an unhurried grace that was mesmerizing to watch.
Speaker 1: Its two upper tentacles, long and delicate, swea ye gently
Speaker 1: from side to side, sensing the air, while the two
Speaker 1: shorter ones below seemed to test the surface before it.
Speaker 1: The snail's body, a soft, translucent gray, rippled with the
Speaker 1: muscular effort of its movement, a slow, fluid wave of
Speaker 1: motion that was profoundly peaceful. Leo settled down on the grass,
Speaker 1: content to simply watch. He leaned his back against the
Speaker 1: warm brick of the garden wall, its rough texture a
Speaker 1: pleasant pressure against his shoulders. From this low vantage point,
Speaker 1: the garden took on a new perspective. The blades of
Speaker 1: grass were a miniature forest, and the hostileaf was a
Speaker 1: vast green plane for the snail to cross. The sounds
Speaker 1: of the garden were different here too. He could hear
Speaker 1: the low hum of a bee somewhere near by, a
Speaker 1: sound felt as much as heard, and the almost imperceptible
Speaker 1: rustle of the hostile leaves as the air moved through them.
Speaker 1: He reached out a single finger, not to touch the snail,
Speaker 1: but to feel the surface of the leaf it was on.
Speaker 1: It was cool and smooth, with a slightly waxy coating
Speaker 1: that felt slick against his skin. The leaf's prominent veins
Speaker 1: stood out in slight relief, creating tiny hills and valleys
Speaker 1: for the snail to navigate. He imagined the world from
Speaker 1: the snail's perspective, a world of texture and dampness, of
Speaker 1: slow exploration, where a single leaf could be an entire
Speaker 1: day's travel. There was a simple, profound honesty in its
Speaker 1: purpose to move, to eat, to be. He watched as
Speaker 1: the snail reached a dew drop that still lingered in
Speaker 1: the cup of the leaf, a perfect, clear sphere of water.
Speaker 1: The snail paused its tentacles, gently touching the edge of
Speaker 1: the drop, before it began to drink, its tiny mouth
Speaker 1: working at the water's surface. It was a small, quiet
Speaker 1: moment of survival and sustenance, an act of life happening
Speaker 1: completely without audience save for him. The sight brought a soft,
Speaker 1: quiet feeling of contentment. This was the garden's secret life,
Speaker 1: the one that unfolded when one was still enough to
Speaker 1: see it. He thought about opening his journal again to
Speaker 1: sketch the scene, but decided against it. Some moments he
Speaker 1: felt were meant just for observation, for being present with
Speaker 1: what was happening. To draw it would be to distance
Speaker 1: himself from it, to turn it into a memory before
Speaker 1: it was even over. Instead, he simply continued to watch,
Speaker 1: his breathing, slow and even, matching the unhurried rhythm of
Speaker 1: the small creature before him. He was a silent companion
Speaker 1: on its journey. The snail eventually reached the other side
Speaker 1: of the leaf and disappeared beneath its cool green shade.
Speaker 1: The silver path that left behind remained glistening in the
Speaker 1: soft light. Leo stayed where he was for a few moments,
Speaker 1: longer feeling the warmth of the brick wall and listening
Speaker 1: to the quiet symphony of the garden. The encounter had
Speaker 1: been a gentle reminder that even in the smallest of movements,
Speaker 1: there was a world of beauty and purpose waiting patiently
Speaker 1: to be noticed. Chapter three, The unfurling fern leaving the
Speaker 1: hostile plant and its memory of the snail's journey, Leo's
Speaker 1: attention was drawn towards a cooler, shadier part of the garden.
Speaker 1: Talked away against the north facing wall, where the sunlight
Speaker 1: was always indirect and gentle, grew a lush patch of ferns.
Speaker 1: Their vibrant green was a deep and RESTful color, a
Speaker 1: stark contrast to the sunnier parts of garden. Here the
Speaker 1: air was stiller, and it carried the distinct, clean scent
Speaker 1: of damp earth and decaying leaves, the smell of life
Speaker 1: regenerating itself. He approached the ferns quietly, his footsteps soft
Speaker 1: on the mossy ground that thrived in this shaded corner.
Speaker 1: The mature ferns stood tall and graceful, their fronds arching
Speaker 1: outwards like delicate green fountains. He admired their complex structure,
Speaker 1: the way each frond was a perfect repeating pattern of
Speaker 1: smaller leaves, each one serrated and precise. They were ancient plants,
Speaker 1: and they seemed to carry an air of quiet, timeless wisdom.
Speaker 1: The deep shade they cast made the area feel like
Speaker 1: a hidden sanctuary within the larger sanctuary of the garden.
Speaker 1: His gaze, however, was drawn downwards to the base of
Speaker 1: the plants, where new life was emerging from the soil.
Speaker 1: There amongst the dark, rich earth were several tightly coiled
Speaker 1: fiddle heads. They were perfect spirals, clenched fists of future growth,
Speaker 1: their surfaces covered in a soft, silvery fuzz. They seemed
Speaker 1: to hold a potent energy, a promise of the elegant
Speaker 1: fronds they would soon become. There was a powerful sense
Speaker 1: of anticipation in their tightly wound forms. Leo knelt down,
Speaker 1: bringing his face closer to one particularly fine specimen. It
Speaker 1: was a marvel of natural geometry, the spirals so perfect
Speaker 1: and precise. He could see the individual segments of the
Speaker 1: future frond, all packed neatly together, waiting for the right
Speaker 1: moment to begin their slow, deliberate process of unfurling. The soft,
Speaker 1: downy coating seemed to protect the delicate structure within a
Speaker 1: temporary blanket against the world. He reached out and very gently,
Speaker 1: with the tip of his finger, touched the top of
Speaker 1: the coil. It felt firm and alive, cool and slight damp.
Speaker 1: He decided this was a moment worthy of the journal.
Speaker 1: Retrieving it from the bench, he returned to the fern
Speaker 1: patch and sat on a smooth flat stone near by,
Speaker 1: opening to a fresh page, he picked up his pencil.
Speaker 1: He wanted to capture the fiddle head, not just as
Speaker 1: it looked, but as it felt, full of potential, a
Speaker 1: tightly wound spring of life. He began to sketch its
Speaker 1: perfect spiral. His pencil stroked slow and careful, trying to
Speaker 1: replicate the elegant curve. He used the side of the
Speaker 1: graphite tip to suggest the soft, fuzzy texture covering its surface.
Speaker 1: While he drew, he became more aware of the sensory
Speaker 1: details of this little corner. The air here was noticeably
Speaker 1: cooler on his skin, a pleasant relief from the open sun.
Speaker 1: The smell of the earth was stronger, a rich, loamy
Speaker 1: scent that spoke of moisture and nutrients. He could hear
Speaker 1: the faint, almost inaudible drip of water from a large
Speaker 1: fern frond above him, releasing the last of the morning's
Speaker 1: dew on to the ground below. It was a quiet,
Speaker 1: contained world, governed by shade and moisture. After capturing the
Speaker 1: form of the fiddle head, he shifted his focus to
Speaker 1: a fully grown frond near by. He let his fingers
Speaker 1: trail along its length, feeling the delicate feathered edges. Of
Speaker 1: the leaflets. It felt like stroking a soft feather, yet
Speaker 1: it was resilient and strong. He turned his attention back
Speaker 1: to his journal and drew a small section of the
Speaker 1: mature frond next to his sketch of the fiddle head,
Speaker 1: a side by side comparison of potential and fulfillment. The
Speaker 1: page was a quiet story of growth of a locycle,
Speaker 1: captured in two simple drawings. He remained there for a
Speaker 1: long while, the open journal resting on his knees. The
Speaker 1: peace of this shaded corner was profound. There were no
Speaker 1: grand events here, only the slow, silent and magnificent process
Speaker 1: of life unfolding at its own pace. The ferns asked
Speaker 1: for nothing but shade and water, and in return they
Speaker 1: offered a deep and abiding sense of tranquility. It was
Speaker 1: a fair exchange, he thought, a simple and beautiful contract
Speaker 1: with the natural world. Chapter four, The Hum of Lavender.
Speaker 1: The sun reached its highest point, warming the garden to
Speaker 1: a pleasant comfortable temperature. Moving from the cool shade of
Speaker 1: the ferns, Leo was drawn by a gentle, resonant sound.
Speaker 1: It was a low, steady hum, a sound that was
Speaker 1: both industrious and deeply calming. It led him to a large,
Speaker 1: sprawling lavender bush near the center of the garden, its
Speaker 1: silvery green foliage topped with a haze of pale purple blossoms.
Speaker 1: The air around it was thick with the plant's clean,
Speaker 1: herbaceous scent, a perfume that seemed to wash over him
Speaker 1: and quiet the mind. The source of the hum was
Speaker 1: immediately apparent. The lavender bush was alive with bees, not
Speaker 1: just one or two, but dozens of them, mostly large,
Speaker 1: fuzzy bumble bees, their black and yellow bodies moving with
Speaker 1: a slow, deliberate purpose. They seemed to be in a
Speaker 1: state of bliss, drifting from one slender stalk to another,
Speaker 1: ignoring his presence completely. They were entirely absorbed in their
Speaker 1: gentle work, a community moving in a peaceful, uncoordinated harmony
Speaker 1: that was mesmerizing to watch. Leo found a comfortable spot
Speaker 1: on the grass a few feet away, close enough to observe,
Speaker 1: but not so close as to disturb them. He sat
Speaker 1: with his back against the trunk of apple tree, its
Speaker 1: rough bark a solid presence behind him. From here he
Speaker 1: had a perfect view of the bees dance. They would
Speaker 1: land softly on a spike of blossoms their weight, causing
Speaker 1: the stalk to dip slightly. They would methodically work their
Speaker 1: way up the spike, visiting each tiny flower with a
Speaker 1: focused intensity, their legs and fuzzy undersides becoming dusted with
Speaker 1: a fine, bright yellow pollen. The sound was the most
Speaker 1: captivating part. It wasn't a frantic buzz't, but a deep,
Speaker 1: sonorous hum that vibrated in the air. It was the
Speaker 1: sound of summer, of life, of a garden in full
Speaker 1: quiet function. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting
Speaker 1: the sound wash over him. It seemed to resonate within
Speaker 1: his own chest, a gentle, thrumbing mantra that eased away
Speaker 1: any lingering thoughts, leaving only the present moment, the warmth
Speaker 1: of the sun, the scent of lavender, and this profound,
Speaker 1: peaceful hung He opened his eyes again and focused on
Speaker 1: a single bee. It was particularly large and seemed almost
Speaker 1: drunk on the abundance of nectar. It moved more slowly
Speaker 1: than the others, taking its time at each blossom. He
Speaker 1: could see the fine, almost invisible hairs on its body,
Speaker 1: each one coated in the golden dust of pollen. He
Speaker 1: watched as it groomed itself mid air, its tiny legs
Speaker 1: brushing the pollen from its antennae before it moved on
Speaker 1: to the next flower. It was a small, intricate ballet
Speaker 1: of survival and symbiosis. The bee fed itself, and in
Speaker 1: doing so, it gave life to the garden. This, too,
Speaker 1: deserved a place in the journal. He opened it on
Speaker 1: his lap, the pages warmed by the sun. He didn't
Speaker 1: try to draw a bee. Their movement was too constant,
Speaker 1: their forms too complex for a quick sketch. Instead, he
Speaker 1: decided to write. He wanted to describe the sound, the color,
Speaker 1: the feeling of the scene. His pencil moved across the page,
Speaker 1: the soft scratching sound almost lost beneath the hum of
Speaker 1: the bees. He wrote about the color of the lavender,
Speaker 1: a purple so soft it was almost gray, and the
Speaker 1: contrasting vibrant yellow of the pollen. He described the hum
Speaker 1: not as a noise, but as a texture in the air,
Speaker 1: a warmth that you could feel. He wrote about the
Speaker 1: way the bees moved, a slow and hovering dance, a
Speaker 1: physical manifestation of contentment. The act of writing it down
Speaker 1: helped to deepen his observation, forcing him to find words
Speaker 1: for sensations that were almost beyond language. It was a
Speaker 1: way of honoring the moment, of giving it a more
Speaker 1: permanent form. He sat there for what felt like a
Speaker 1: long time, the pencil resting on the page. The sun
Speaker 1: was warm on his face. The scent of lavender was
Speaker 1: a constant, soothing presence, and the air vibrated with the
Speaker 1: gentle energy of the bees. It was a moment of
Speaker 1: perfect synthesis, where all the scent were engaged in a single,
Speaker 1: peaceful experience. The garden was not just a place of quiet,
Speaker 1: but a place of gentle, purposeful life, and he was
Speaker 1: grateful to be a quiet witness to it all. Chapter five,
Speaker 1: Water on Stone. As the afternoon began its slow descent
Speaker 1: towards evening, the quality of the light and the garden changed.
Speaker 1: The brilliant direct sunlight softened, turning a warmer, more golden hue.
Speaker 1: Long shadows began to stretch from the base of the
Speaker 1: apple tree and the tall brick walls, painting the lawn
Speaker 1: in broad, cool strokes. A new quietness settled over the
Speaker 1: garden as the bees retreated from the lavender and the
Speaker 1: bird song became more intermittent. It was a time of transition,
Speaker 1: a gentle winding down of the day. Leo felt this
Speaker 1: shift and knew it was time for one final simple task.
Speaker 1: He rose from his spot by the tree and walked
Speaker 1: to a small, weathered wooden barrel near the cottage door
Speaker 1: that collected rain water. He picked up a small, dark
Speaker 1: green watering can, Its metal body cooled to the touch.
Speaker 1: He dipped it into the barrel and the can filled
Speaker 1: with a low gurgling sound. The water clear and soft.
Speaker 1: The can felt heavy and balanced in his hand as
Speaker 1: he carried it back into the garden. His destination was
Speaker 1: a collection of shallow terra cotta pots arranged on a
Speaker 1: low stone ledge. They were filled with a variety of succulents,
Speaker 1: some with thick floah as she leaves arranged in rosettes,
Speaker 1: others with spiky architectural forms. Among the plants, he had
Speaker 1: placed several smooth, gray river stones, their rounded shapes a
Speaker 1: pleasing contrast to the pointed leaves of the succulents. The
Speaker 1: soil in the pots looked dry, a pale, dusty brown.
Speaker 1: They were thirsty. He tilted the watering can and a
Speaker 1: gentle stream of water emerged from its spout. He directed
Speaker 1: the flow to the base of the first plant. The
Speaker 1: sound the water made as it hit the dry soil
Speaker 1: was soft and satisfying, a gentle hiss followed by a deeper,
Speaker 1: soaking sound. He watched as the parched earth drank greedily,
Speaker 1: its color instantly changing from pale brown to a rich,
Speaker 1: dark chocolate. The water pulled for a moment before disappearing,
Speaker 1: completely absorbed into the soil. He moved from one pot
Speaker 1: to the next, repeating the quiet ritual. Each plant received
Speaker 1: its share of the cool, clear water. He took his time,
Speaker 1: insuring the water soaked deep into the pot, rather than
Speaker 1: just running over the surface. He paid close attention to
Speaker 1: the sound, a quiet music that was unique to this task.
Speaker 1: The gentle patter of water on a fleshy leaf, the
Speaker 1: soft rush as it flowed over a smooth stone, the
Speaker 1: whisper as it sank into the porous earth. The water
Speaker 1: also transformed the stones he had placed in the pots.
Speaker 1: When dry, they were a uniform mac gray, but as
Speaker 1: the cool water walked rushed over them, their hidden colors
Speaker 1: were revealed. Veins of darker gray and flecks of white
Speaker 1: quartz became visible, their patterns stark and beautiful against the wet,
Speaker 1: dark surface. They glistened in the soft afternoon light, looking
Speaker 1: as though they had just been plucked from a river bed.
Speaker 1: It was a small magical transformation, a secret revealed by
Speaker 1: a simple stream of water. After the last pot was watered,
Speaker 1: he set the now light watering can down. A clean,
Speaker 1: earthy scent rose from the damp soil, mingling with the faint,
Speaker 1: lingering perfume of the lavender. He stood for a moment,
Speaker 1: simply observing his work. The succulents seemed to stand a
Speaker 1: little taller, their colors more vibrant against the dark, damp soil.
Speaker 1: The wet stones gleamed with her quiet beauty. It was
Speaker 1: a scene of simple order and care, and it brought
Speaker 1: with it a deep sense of quiet satisfaction. He returned
Speaker 1: to the bench and picked up his journal one last time.
Speaker 1: He didn't write or draw, but simply placed a single
Speaker 1: small lavender blossom he'd found on the path between the
Speaker 1: last two pages, a fragrant memento of the day. He
Speaker 1: then closed the book, the soft thud of the cover
Speaker 1: a sound of completion. The cool evening air was beginning
Speaker 1: to settle in the garden, a soft blanket descending the
Speaker 1: day of quiet noticings was over, leaving behind a feeling
Speaker 1: of profound peace and a gentle connection to the small,
Speaker 1: beautiful world within the garden walls.
Speaker 2: And the same three da