4 hours ago
3
I must have passed it 100 times. Until one day in 2022, stuck in Melbourne traffic, I glanced towards the park in Bayside and saw mist rising from the trees, as if they had just exhaled into the dawn sunlight. This sight cheered me, lifting the pall of the workday grind ahead. Right then I made a resolution to interrupt my commute at least once a week by visiting the park and I have kept to it ever since.
The next day I left the stream of traffic, parked the car and walked into the park, skirting the cricket oval where dogs chase sassy swallows skimming the grass just out of reach. Past there is a quiet pond where you will find ducks and turtles, and beside it is one of those forgotten patches of land where nature gets to do her thing unhindered.
As I approached what would become my special place, the traffic noise faded and work worries vanished. I reached a small patch of green where understorey saplings rise almost branchless beneath an ancient white-trunked eucalyptus, protected by its vast embrace. I felt its protection, too. As I stood there in the company of trees I closed my eyes and inhaled. I couldn’t help smiling. After countless visits, I’ve discovered that each season has its special scent.
I once flew in a balloon over Queensland’s Atherton Tablelands. I had never truly understood that trees were flowering plants until the pilot descended into a valley to follow a stream, drifting so close and silent above the giant trees that we could hear the hum of bees in that high canopy of flowers, just below our feet.
My special place in spring has that same waft of honey, when eucalyptus blossoms spin to the ground like tiny pink tutus, their job done. They mingle there with petals from the saplings, which have a citrus tang that reminds me of the lemonade I drank as a child.
On warm summer mornings the vapour from eucalyptus, the oil highly flammable, is so strong that I know there is a danger of bushfires somewhere. In autumn, I smell the mushrooms before I spot them. In winter, water falls through the eucalyptus leaves, turning it into perfumed rain. Breathing there makes me feel grateful to be alive.
This need to spend time in green spaces is universal. On holiday in Japan, I saw small gardens lovingly tended to in so many places. Even railway substations, otherwise all ugly transformers and high-voltage wiring, were turned into charming oases with gardens of playful topiary – an antidote to industrial blight.
I still can’t explain why greenness has such an effect on us, except that it may be the fundamental colour of growth, and of life. Grey is not. Concrete may be useful, but it cannot sustain us.
I urge you to find your nearest patch of wild. If you don’t know where that is, find one. Change your usual route, just a little, and spend a few minutes there. Go into that green place and breathe.
