Hello friends, Gary Stewart here. The cherry tree is losing its blossom this week. The wind is seeing to that. I nearly watched it go from the kitchen window with a cold cup of coffee — and then my oldest (Olivia) came downstairs and asked me to go outside with her, and I did, and I am glad. This week's letter is about that four minutes under the tree, and what it cost me nothing to do and everything to miss.

"To me a lush carpet of pine needles or spongy grass is more welcome than the most luxurious Persian rug."

— Helen Keller

There is a part of the garden I have been walking past all week without stopping. The cherry trees (Sunset Boulevard) are there, in the right hand side bed, near the fence that needs painting again. By Tuesday morning it was fully out — that particular white that is almost pink, or almost nothing at all, depending on the light and whether you are really looking. By Thursday the wind had arrived and was taking it apart, petal by petal, methodically and without apology. I stood at the kitchen window with my coffee going cold and watched it go.

I did not go outside until my oldest asked me to. That is the honest truth of it. She had noticed the tree from her bedroom window and came downstairs with that slightly solemn look children wear when something beautiful is happening and they are not sure whether they are allowed to simply enjoy it or should feel sad about it instead. She said: Dad, the tree is snowing. I put my coat on.

We stood under it for perhaps four minutes. The petals came down slowly when the wind eased and then in sudden rushes when it picked up again, and they settled in her hair, and she lifted her face the way you do in real snow, and I thought: this is one of those moments you do not know you are storing while it is happening. You only know it later, when you reach for it and find it there, intact, in its small glass case inside your chest.

The cherry trees were a 40th birthday present from me. Now 5 years old they were a wonderful investment and always bring joy. Every April it blooms. Every April the blossom lasts somewhere between ten days and two weeks, depending on what the weather decides. And every April, I am surprised again.

I think I am surprised because the rest of the garden in April is mostly about effort and preparation and things that have not happened yet. The beds are prepared but not fully planted. The seeds are in their packets or their trays. The ground is either too wet or briefly, tantalisingly, almost ready. The cherry tree does not participate in any of this. It is not preparing. It is not waiting. It simply arrives, fully itself, without announcement or apology, and then it goes.

There is something almost aggressive about that kind of beauty. It asks nothing of you in terms of skill or patience or good timing. You do not grow the cherry blossom; it grows despite you. All you can do is be present when it happens. And I was almost not. I almost stayed at the kitchen window.

The petals are on the lawn now — drifts of them along the base of the fence, like a pale tideline. In a few days they will be brown and sodden and indistinguishable from the general mess of early April. My daughter has already moved on to other concerns. The trees themselves are moving on — the leaves are coming in now, quieter, greener, more useful, less extraordinary. This is how it works.

The lesson is not subtle, and it does not need to be. Some things do not wait for you to be ready. They happen on their schedule, in their season, for their allotted time. Your only job is to be in the garden when they do. I nearly wasn't. A cold cup of coffee nearly won. My daughter's four-minute attention span saved me.

Gardening Tips

Leave the fallen petals alone

Let blossom petals sit on the lawn or border for a few days. They break down quickly and add a little organic matter. More importantly, the tideline they leave tells you which way your wind runs — useful when planning what to shelter in the beds below.

The lesson: not every mess needs fixing immediately.

Check your soil before sowing anything

April warmth is deceptive. Squeeze a handful of soil — if it holds its shape and doesn't crumble, it's still too wet and cold for direct sowing. Give it another week. Rushing this is how seeds rot quietly underground, and you only find out a month later.

The lesson: readiness cannot be hurried into existence.

Water seedlings in the morning

Nights are still cool enough that evening watering leaves seedlings sitting damp in the cold, which encourages damping off. Morning watering gives them the whole day to absorb it and dry a little before dark. A small habit that makes a quiet difference over weeks.

The lesson: timing matters as much as the act itself.

Garden To-Do’s

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Go outside when it's happening.

There will always be something keeping you at the window. The coffee, the inbox, the sense that there's still time. For some things, there isn't. The blossom doesn't negotiate.

Let someone else show you what you almost missed.

My daughter saw it before I did. She came and found me. We do not always notice the most important things on our own — sometimes they are pointed out by smaller people who have not yet learned to look away.

Trust what the tree is already doing.

Beneath the falling petals, the tree is already in its next phase of work — setting leaf, storing light, quietly preparing for what comes next. The season is not ending. It is turning. It always turns.

Until next week, friends. Get outside if you can.

— Gary