Learning Mindfulness

When the first light touches the tall trees of my orchard, the world seems to be waking up from slumber. The dew, like a thin blanket, covers the grass and the terraced slopes. In that stillness, I am reminded that mindfulness is not something to be achieved; it is something to be remembered.

While spending time here, I have come to see the orchard not merely as a place of work or abundance but as a living teacher. The trees, insects, birds, and soil all form a community where every being performs its role without haste or resistance. The rhythm of nature becomes a gentle guide, teaching lessons in the rustle of leaves and the hum of bees for those who want to listen and learn. I have been learning living with mindfulness. Being present and living in the present.

There are some basic techniques that I have come up with. One is when I walk around in the orchard, especially the slow stroll kind of walk when I check out how my trees are doing, I carefully and purposefully feel each breath. I appreciate the way the air goes in and how I exhale it out. Even the walk feels mindful. The rough steps and then the almost flat slate stones laid as a pathway, and then some more steps, then a small metallic bridge and a platform of some smooth stones. Each texture under my feet gives a different feeling. My eyes focus on the pathway so that I don’t trip, and then at times when I stand at a place, I look around enjoying the details around me. Instead of rushing down the path, I prefer to stroll and absorb as much as I can.

Sometimes, I spot a few ripe berries, ready to be plucked. I collect them and munch on them. Each bite filled with taste and sweetness, the texture, the juice. I feel happy and thankful that I am given an opportunity to enjoy it. I relish every bite and feel the moment when I enjoy it.

When I prune a branch, I know I am pruning. When I collect fallen fruits, I know I am collecting. The act itself becomes meditation. Instead of letting my thoughts wander around, I enjoy the task at hand. The orchard does not demand me to be calm; it invites me to notice, to see, to feel, to listen. Mindfulness then is not a technique but a friendship with the present moment.

I have found that even the most ordinary tasks hold deep lessons. While watering the saplings, I observe how the water seeks the lowest point, never arguing with gravity. In that, I see humility. When the leaves fall in the autumn and then the frost settles on the leaves, I see impermanence. And when spring arrives, soft and sudden filling the orchard with blossoms and new leaves, I see the truth of renewal.

Sometimes, I simply sit beneath an old apricot tree, next to an apple. The breeze moves through its branches like a quiet song. A wind chime sings. There is no need to analyse or label anything. I let the senses rest in their natural state, the eyes open to the play of light, the ears open to the chirping of the birds nearby, the mind open to whatever arises. And then on my thoughts, I can ponder and contemplate.

Mindfulness, I realise, is not about escaping thought but about returning home again and again to the world within and without. When one can listen to the sound of a leaf falling without judgement or desire, peace no longer feels like something distant. It is here, always, waiting quietly in the soil of awareness. When life feels unsettled and when I have some problems (who doesn’t have them?), I choose to pause and look within for clarity and solutions. After that, I turn to mindfulness, practising it consciously to find calm again. It usually helps.

Every day in the orchard is a practice. Some days are silent; some are busy. But whether I am turning compost, watching a butterfly, photographing the snow-peaks, or tasting the first fruit of the season, I try to walk as if the earth itself were sacred ground because to me it is.

When I bow, it isn’t only to the trees but to the simple gift of being able to see them, care for them, and learn from them. Gratitude itself becomes mindfulness, natural and effortless. When I retire to my bed at the end of the day, I mentally thank everything and everyone who made my day peaceful and fulfilling. And then I pick up a book, read a few words, and slowly slide into a restful sleep.

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