Chapter 11: What Does Contemplation Do?

My Hut in the Garden – Reflections from the Path of Alchemy

23 June 2026

This morning I was sitting outside My Hut in the Garden watching the birds at the feeder.

The sparrows and great tits seemed to be eating constantly. Some would land, grab a seed, and immediately fly away. Others would return again and again. I wondered if they ever stopped eating. Then it occurred to me that many were probably taking seeds back to their young.

As I watched them, I was reminded of Bakri Estate, where I spent the first years of my life.

I have often noticed that sparrows bring Bakri Estate to mind. I do not know exactly why. Perhaps they were abundant there. Perhaps their chatter formed part of the background music of childhood. Perhaps they remind me of a time before life became complicated.

Whatever the reason, the connection is immediate.

The sparrows arrive.

Bakri Estate appears.

A memory stirs.

That led me to ask a question:

What does contemplation do for me?

As often happens these days, I turned the question over with my AI companion, Solin.

The response surprised me.

Observation notices:

"The sparrows keep returning to the feeder."

"Some fly away carrying seeds."

"They remind me of Bakri Estate."

Analysis asks:

"Why are they doing that?"

"Are they feeding chicks?"

"How often do sparrows eat?"

But contemplation is something different.

Contemplation lingers.

It allows one thing to touch another without rushing to a conclusion.

I watch the sparrows.

The sparrows bring a memory of Bakri Estate.

Bakri Estate brings memories of childhood.

Childhood brings memories of my parents, my siblings, the workers on the estate, the trees, the smells, the sounds, and the feeling of being a little girl in a very large world.

None of this needs to be forced.

The mind is not solving a problem.

It is allowing connections to emerge.

I realised that many of my journal entries begin exactly this way.

A raven lands in the garden.

A wild rose catches my attention.

I hear Beethoven's Violin Concerto.

I pull bindweed.

I watch a sparrow.

Then, if I stay with it long enough, something about myself becomes clearer.

Not because I searched for an answer.

Because I stayed with the question.

Another insight followed.

Observation says:

"The sparrows are taking seeds."

Interpretation says:

"The sparrows symbolize something."

Contemplation says:

"The sparrows are taking seeds, and they remind me of Bakri Estate. I wonder why."

No rush.

No conclusion.

Just curiosity.

That distinction felt important.

Over the past weeks I have been exploring the difference between observation and interpretation. I have seen how quickly the mind can leap from what is happening to what I think it means.

Contemplation offers a middle way.

It does not rush into explanation.

It allows experience to breathe.

One sentence from the conversation stayed with me:

Contemplation allows us to watch where our thoughts go, without having to follow every one of them.

A thought arises:

"Those sparrows remind me of Bakri Estate."

I notice it.

Another thought appears:

"I wonder why Bakri Estate still feels so alive in me."

I notice that too.

Then perhaps a memory arrives.

Or perhaps nothing arrives at all.

Contemplation does not require me to chase the memory, explain it, or turn it into a chapter immediately.

It simply invites:

"Stay here a moment. See what unfolds."

I realised this may be one of the gifts of My Hut in the Garden.

The hut and the garden create the conditions for contemplation.

When I am pulling bindweed, listening to Beethoven, stirring herbs over a fire, watching birds, or simply sitting with a cup of tea, there is just enough activity to occupy my hands and just enough quiet to allow my mind to wander.

Many people have thoughts.

Far fewer have time to contemplate them.

There was one more thread to this morning.

A few days ago I sent two chapters to my sister Linda.

Her reply was simple:

"I will carefully read, contemplate and revert" 

That choice of words caught my attention.

She did not say she agreed.

She did not say she disagreed.

She did not say I was right.

She did not say I was wrong.

She said she would contemplate.

And suddenly I saw a small symmetry.

This morning I was contemplating sparrows and Bakri Estate.

Linda was contemplating my chapters.

Neither of us yet knew what would emerge.

But something was being given time.

At almost eighty-one years old, I am beginning to appreciate that not every thought requires a verbal response.

Not every feeling requires action.

Not every question requires an answer.

Sometimes a sparrow is carrying a seed.

Sometimes a sister is carrying a chapter.

And contemplation allows us to watch where they go.