Letting the light back in

Some of the olive trees in our grove have been growing beneath a covering of ivy for years. Yet, through the tangle, they are still producing leaves. Still carrying olives.

I find that incredibly moving.

Here in Chianni, Tuscany, we have been clearing the trees before the harvest. I expected physical work, tired hands and the satisfaction of seeing our progress. I hadn’t expected it to feel so cathartic or to make me think so deeply about how we live.

The oldest ivy is thickest at the bottom. It has grown into the twists and hollows of the olive trunks, becoming so deeply entwined that it can be difficult to see where one ends and the other begins.

Those sections take the most patience. We work carefully, a little at a time, trying to loosen what has held on for so long without damaging the tree beneath it.

But as we follow the ivy higher, the growth becomes thinner and easier to release. Once a section loosens, we can see more clearly where to work next.

And gradually, light reaches parts of the tree that have been hidden for years.

I found myself wanting to remove each tangled ivy stem with my hands. I took off my gloves. There was something about feeling the stems and the bark directly that mattered to me, a need to feel deeply connected to the trees as I helped free them.

I wanted to clear the ground around each one, too. And when I had finished, I stroked the tree and said, “Now you can breathe again.”

It was such a simple gesture, but it came so naturally. By then, this felt like much more than clearing ivy.

Standing there, I couldn’t help thinking about the things we carry.

Some worries are recent and relatively easy to put down. Others have been with us for so long that they feel woven into who we are. Old fears. Expectations. Responsibilities we have never questioned. Ways of protecting ourselves that we still hold on to.

The deepest tangles can be the hardest to face. Sometimes we hardly know where to begin.

I recognised something of myself in that work: the patience it takes to understand what is holding on, and the relief when even a small part begins to loosen.

I have also been reading about certainty, how much we seek it, and how little life can promise us.

I know the temptation to wait until everything feels settled. Until I know how something will turn out. Until a worry has been resolved and I can finally relax into living.

But there is always another unknown.

Perhaps part of living is learning to take the next step without needing to see the whole path.

Working in the grove made that thought feel tangible. I couldn’t see every stem beneath the ivy. I could only begin with what was in front of me, work gently, and discover what became visible.

The trees themselves made me think about resilience.

They have stood through dry summers, storms and the snow we had this January. Looking at their weathered trunks, I wonder how many seasons they have endured.

Some olive trees live for centuries. The ancient tree at Vouves in Crete, thought to be thousands of years old, still produces olives. It is extraordinary to imagine that length of life, and the fruit it continues to give.

In our own grove, even some of the heavily covered trees have found ways to send leaves towards the light. This year, their branches carry the olives that will become our liquid gold.

I felt such admiration for them. And I wanted to help.

Being strong enough to survive doesn’t mean we should have to keep carrying everything.

As an artist, these are the moments that feed my painting. Before I pick up a brush, there is the looking: noticing a shape, a colour, a small detail that suddenly holds meaning.

The silver of an olive leaf. The twists in an old trunk. Sunlight falling on bark we have just uncovered.

That attention changes how I feel.

When I paint, something similar can happen. My hands become occupied and my thoughts settle around colour, shape and the next brushstroke. I don’t need to know exactly how the painting will turn out before I begin.

I am increasingly drawn to this connection between creativity and emotional wellbeing. The space that opens when we allow ourselves to make, notice and explore without demanding a perfect result.

Clearing the ivy gave me that space too. It felt quietly spiritual: caring for something living, becoming absorbed in the work, and finding meaning in what was unfolding before me.

We still have trees to clear. Some tangles will take longer than others.

But I keep returning to that moment when the ivy loosened and sunlight reached the trunk beneath it.

We don’t have to untangle our whole lives before we let a little light in.

Natalie x