The Crack in the Patio

There is a tomato plant growing in a crack in my patio.

It wasn’t planted there.

I didn’t water it every day or carefully prepare the soil. In fact, I almost missed it. Yet today it is four times the size of the tomato plant I lovingly nurtured in a pot.

It made me wonder how often we misunderstand what it means to help something grow.

For much of my life I have sown seeds. Sometimes literally. More often through conversations, projects, partnerships and ideas.

Like many people, I wanted to see those seeds flourish. I thought that meant finding the right place, the right conditions and the right plan. Experience has taught me something gentler. Our role is not always to decide where something should grow. Sometimes it is simply to notice where it already is.

Nature rarely asks permission. Seeds travel on the wind, in the feathers of birds, on muddy boots and in forgotten corners. Most never germinate. A few find exactly the right combination of light, moisture and opportunity. Those are often the ones that surprise us. People can be like that too.

We spend a great deal of time trying to cultivate perfect pathways through education, careers, organisations and carefully designed programmes. Those things matter. They create opportunities.

But occasionally someone flourishes because they found their own small crack in the patio.

A place that no one planned.

A chance conversation.

A volunteer session.

A walk in the woods.

A community garden.

A park bench.

An unexpected invitation.

A moment when someone simply noticed them.

Looking back over the years, I realise I have been less of a gardener than I imagined. Perhaps I have simply been a seed sower.

Or maybe just someone who clears away enough of the moss and fallen leaves for others to notice the tiny green shoot already pushing through. That thought brings me comfort. It means I don’t have to make everything happen. I don’t have to convince everyone. I don’t have to hold every project together forever. I simply have to keep creating places where life has a chance to emerge.

The remarkable thing is that the strongest seeds often find their own way. They develop deep roots because they have to. They learn to bend with the wind because no one shelters them forever. They become part of the landscape rather than an exhibit within it.

Perhaps that is true of ideas as well. We can nurture them for a while. Then we have to let them travel.

Some will disappear. Some will lie dormant for years. And some will quietly find the one small crack where they can grow into something far bigger than we ever imagined.

Maybe that is enough.

Perhaps the most generous thing we can do is not to grow people into the shape we think they should become.

Perhaps it is simply to help them find the crack in the patio where they can grow into themselves.

Looking Outward

Sometimes, to understand ourselves more clearly, we have to look further away.

When the Voyager 1 spacecraft turned its camera back towards Earth in 1990, it captured one of the most famous images ever taken. Our entire world appeared as a tiny, almost invisible speck of light suspended in a sunbeam. Carl Sagan called it the Pale Blue Dot.

Looking at that image, it’s almost impossible not to feel your perspective change. Our arguments seem a little smaller. Our borders become invisible. Our differences begin to look less like divisions and more like variations within one remarkable story.

Perspective changes everything. Perhaps that is why we climb hills. Why we build observatories. Why astronauts describe seeing Earth from space as a life-changing experience. Sometimes we need to step back in order to see more clearly.

I wonder if we sometimes forget to do that in everyday life. We become so busy managing our lives that we lose sight of life itself. We become experts in systems but forget what those systems were created to achieve.

We pursue efficiency and then search for wellbeing. We build complexity and then long for simplicity. Perhaps we haven’t lost these things at all. Perhaps we’ve simply laid them down along the path without noticing.

Like a favourite walking stick forgotten against a gate.

Or a pair of glasses resting on top of our heads while we search the house. They are not gone. They are waiting to be rediscovered.

I often hear people speak about “getting back to nature,” as though nature were somewhere else. Yet perhaps the real journey isn’t back. Perhaps it is inward. A rediscovery that nature has always included us.

We are not visitors to this pale blue dot. We are expressions of it.

That doesn’t make us less remarkable. It makes our responsibility even greater. Looking back from space doesn’t diminish humanity. It reminds us how extraordinary it is that one small world can hold forests and cities, butterflies and telescopes, poetry and physics, Star Trek and Shakespeare, strangers and friends.

Every act of kindness. Every volunteer. Every child planting their first tree. Every conversation on a park bench.

All happening on this tiny blue world.

Perhaps sometimes we need to look outward…

…simply to remember who we are.

With time – You Become the Journey

There comes a point in many walks when you stop looking at the map. Not because you’re lost. Nor because you’ve reached your destination. But because something else has begun to guide you.

When we’re young, life often feels like a series of destinations. This is where I went to school, this is where I had my first job, this is where we got married. Almost as though life were a checklist of places to arrive.

We spend years asking ourselves: “What path should I take?” It’s a sensible question.

Maps matter.
Planning matters.

Knowing where we’re heading can help us take the first step. But after enough years, enough wrong turns, enough unexpected encounters and enough beautiful detours, another question begins to emerge.

Perhaps the better question is:

“What sort of traveller am I becoming?”

Because life has a curious habit of changing us while we’re busy trying to change our circumstances. The places we visit leave traces behind. So do the people we meet.

The conversations we have on park benches.
The rivers we stop beside.
The trees we lean against.
The storms we shelter from.
The paths we never intended to take.

Every journey leaves something with us and over time, we realise that we are not simply moving through landscapes. The landscapes are moving through us.

Perhaps that is why some people become gentler with age. Not because life has become easier. But because they have travelled far enough to know that certainty is rarely as valuable as curiosity.

That every horizon reveals another and that every answer creates a better question.

Nature seems to understand this instinctively that a river never arrives. It is always becoming. A tree is never finished. It is always growing. Eventually breaking down to help sustain it’s regenerative parts.

Even a woodland is less a place than an ongoing conversation between countless lives unfolding across time. So perhaps we are no different. We often imagine that wisdom is about finding the right destination. Maybe wisdom is really about learning how to travel well.

To notice. To wonder. To leave places a little better than we found them. To walk gently enough that others are encouraged to join us. To know when to lead and when simply to walk alongside.

Looking back, I can see that many of the paths I thought were taking me somewhere were actually shaping who I was becoming. The destination was never the whole story. The journey was quietly doing its own work.

And somewhere along the road, almost without noticing…

…you become the journey.

How do we make working life feel more like life?

Today is #OutdoorOfficeDay – 11th June 2026

The obvious interpretation is simple.

Take your work outside. And yes, that’s a great place to start.

Take a call while walking.
Have a meeting on a park bench.
Drink your tea outside.
Look up from your screen for a few minutes.

But perhaps Outdoor Office Day is asking a bigger question. We often talk about work-life balance. Yet work happens during our lives.

We spend a huge proportion of our waking hours working.

We learn at work.
We build relationships at work.
We solve problems at work.
We contribute to society through work.

So if work isn’t life, what is it? Perhaps we’ve accidentally separated something that was never really separate. For most of human history there wasn’t a distinction between “work” and “life”.

There was simply life.

Finding food.
Building shelter.
Making things.
Learning.
Caring.
Resting.
Playing.
Being part of a community.

Somewhere along the way we became very good at putting activities into boxes.

Work.
Home.
Leisure.
Nature.

Useful categories perhaps. But they can sometimes make us forget that we’re still people first. Maybe that’s why a short walk can change the feel of a meeting.

Why a conversation can sometimes achieve more than a dozen emails.

Why changing the view can change the thinking.

Why drinking tea beneath a tree can feel strangely important.

Not because productivity has stopped. But because life hasn’t.

So perhaps Outdoor Office Day isn’t really about taking work outside. Perhaps it’s about remembering that work happens inside life, not the other way around.

And if we’re serious about wellbeing, maybe the question isn’t:

“How do we balance work and life?”

Maybe it’s:

“How do we make working life feel more like life?”

Walkshops instead of workshops.

Walking conversations instead of meetings.

Tea outside.

Greetings instead of emails.

Looking up.

Listening.

Taking a moment to notice the world around us.

Not because work matters less. But because people matter more.

The Green Thread: The Hopscotch Test

I recently saw a short video that has stayed with me.

Someone had drawn a simple hopscotch grid in chalk on a pavement. Nothing complicated. Just a few numbered squares. The camera then recorded the reactions of adults walking past. Many people didn’t notice it at all. Some were looking at their phones. Some stepped around it unsure what it was, others passed without a glance and some saw it and smiled before continuing on their way.

But then something interesting happened. Every so often, somebody hopped. Perhaps only for a second sometimes only a couple of squares. Sometimes alone but often with a friend. Almost always laughing.

And it made me wonder: What exactly were they responding to?

The chalk?
The game?
A memory?
Or an invitation?

As adults, we spend much of our lives moving with purpose. From meeting to meeting.
Task to task. Notification to notification. We become very good at getting to the next place often without hestiation.

Less often do we allow ourselves to simply experience where we already are. Yet many of the things we value about nature work in a remarkably similar way to that hopscotch grid.

A winding path invites exploration.
A fallen tree invites balancing.
A stream invites curiosity.
A meadow invites wandering.
A bench invites pause.

None of these things demand our attention. They simply offer it. Whether we accept the invitation is up to us.

Perhaps that is one reason why parks and green spaces matter. Not only because they support biodiversity, improve air quality, reduce flooding, store carbon, or contribute to physical and mental health. They do all of those things. But they also provide something harder to measure.

Permission – Permission to slow down, to notice, to wonder and to play.

Children rarely need encouragement to do this. They instinctively turn spaces into adventures. A patch of grass becomes a kingdom, a stick becomes a sword, wand or fishing rod and a puddle becomes an irresistible challenge.

Adults often need reminding. Not because we have lost the ability. Because we have become distracted from it. Perhaps that is why the adults who hopped along the chalk squares were smiling. For a moment they stepped outside the script and were not simply passing through a space they were participating in it.

The hopscotch grid disappeared eventually. Rain would have washed it away. But for a few hours it changed how people moved through that place. It nudged them from observer to participant. And perhaps that is one of the quiet lessons hidden within a City of Nature. The goal is not simply to create greener spaces. It is to create places that invite people back into relationship with the world around them.

Places that encourage us to notice, to connect, to explore and every now and then -to hop.

Reflections from the Bridge: A Valued City

A woman looking at a city across a nature lined river from a bridge.

The Green Pages are for exploring some of the deeper ideas, questions and connections sitting underneath Birmingham’s City of Nature journey.

They are part storytelling, part systems thinking, these reflections wander through parks, waterways, communities, governance, memory, belonging and the living systems that quietly shape everyday life in the city. Some pieces begin with policy. Some begin with a walk, a conversation, or a moment of noticing.

All are connected by the same question: what might it mean to truly live as part of a living system?

“A Valued City” was always one of the ideas we grappled with most while developing the City of Nature plan. Not because value is unimportant. Quite the opposite.

Money is a necessary human construct.
Cities need funding.
Parks need investment.
People need livelihoods.
Organisations need ways to sustain themselves and plan for the future.

And yet, somewhere underneath all of that sits another truth: life itself does not operate through financial value. Humans existed for a very long time before money.

Forests grew before there were shares and markets. Rivers flowed before accounting systems. Pollinators productively moved through landscapes before economics. Soil organisms built fertility long before anyone tried to calculate “ecosystem services.”

Sometimes I wonder if part of the challenge modern societies face is that we have become so focused on assigning value that we risk forgetting how to recognise life itself. And perhaps that is why humans are often drawn to bridges, they allow you to see things from a different point of view.

Standing above the moving water can simulate a different kind of thinking and recently I found myself wondering: if a river could speak, what would it say about all this?

Perhaps something like this:

“You measure cost and value. I measure time and movement. You carry bank notes and credit cards, I simply carry:
rain,
sediment,
nutrients,
memory,
life.

Long before your roads and markets, I was already moving through the landscape. You built beside me. Then over me. Then away from me and eventually you began searching for me again.

Sometimes you call me a resource, sometimes infrastructure and sometimes risk. But I was never. am never only one thing. I am movement connecting infinitely small lives:
fungi,
roots,
moss,
bacteria,
fish,
birds,
soil,
rain,
and as human hands trail briefly through me I am time – spent well.

You calculate value because your systems require it. But life existed before value did.”

And perhaps that is the balance we continue trying to navigate within a City of Nature. Not rejecting economics or investment because those things matter – obviously.

But remembering that financial value is ultimately a human framework placed around something much older and more fundamental: the living system itself.

A system made from countless tiny relationships happening continuously all around us. Mostly unnoticed, unpriced and yet sustaining everything.

Perhaps that is why people become quiet beside water. Some older part of us recognises something there. Not ownership. Not productivity. Just flow. Interdependence and belonging to something larger than ourselves.

Can adults ever really see “just mud” again?

Green Pages is a space for exploring some of the quieter reflections sitting underneath Birmingham’s City of Nature journey.

Part nature writing, part systems thinking, these pieces often begin with ordinary moments:
a walk,
a conversation,
a bridge,
a memory,
mud on a child’s hands.

From there, they gently wander into bigger questions about belonging, wellbeing, nature connection, memory and what it means to remain connected to the living world in modern urban life.

This reflection began with a surprisingly simple question:

Can adults ever really see “just mud” again?

I found myself thinking about this after hearing the line in Men in Black about “never being able to just look at the stars anymore.” Once we understand something deeply, can we ever see it simply again.

As we learn more and more over the years mud stops being “just mud” and becomes:
soil ecology,
fungi,
decomposition,
carbon,
flood management,
bacteria,
worms,
the smell of soil after rain becomes – petrichor

Layer upon layer of meaning accumulates through life. Perhaps that is true of many things. Canals become infrastructure and history. Trees become biodiversity and climate resilience. Water becomes systems, sustainability and risk.

And yet children often encounter these things differently. Mud is not part of “environmental infrastructure.”
It is cold.
Wet.
Messy.
Funny.
Something to jump in, dig through and explore.

The immediate experience comes first.

Maybe part of helping children connect with nature is not only teaching them the facts about the environment that we have learned. Perhaps it is also about protecting that direct relationship with the living world before too many layers settle over it.

Not because knowledge is wrong. Knowledge matters deeply. But perhaps wisdom is learning how to hold both things at once, understanding complexity while still being able to feel wonder. To know the science of soil and still delight in muddy puddles. To understand biodiversity loss and still be excited by muddy pawprints.

Because perhaps a child is not simply our “younger self.” Perhaps the child is actually the oldest layer of consciousness we still carry.

The first noticer, the first self to experience rain, mud, trees, fear, joy, light and belonging without explanation. Everything else came afterwards. Responsibilities and assigned roles becoming professional identities and knowledge creating layer upon layer of accumulated self.

But underneath all of that, something older remains. The original consciousness that first encountered the world directly. The source code of being human. And perhaps that is why nature connection matters so profoundly. Because when children play in mud, follow insects along a twig, climb trees, stare into water or lie in long grass watching clouds move overhead, they may not simply be “learning about nature.” They may be forming the deepest layer of consciousness they will carry for the rest of their lives.

The baseline from which future belonging, curiosity, empathy and wonder will grow. Perhaps decades later, after careers, responsibilities, losses, systems and accumulated selves have gathered around them, something unexpectedly cuts through: the smell after rain, sticks floating on water beneath a bridge, summer air through an open window, bees bumbling into foxgloves beside a path, distant birdsong at dusk.

And for a moment, the intervening layers become thinner. Not gone but for a while at least – translucent.

And something ancient inside them quietly remembers the time before productivity, before identity, before performance, before explanation, when they belonged to the living world.

Perhaps that is the real importance of helping children connect with nature. Not simply because nature needs protecting. Not because children need to accumulate knowledge. But because somewhere in the future, the latest version of that child may desperately need to remember who they were before the layers settled over them.

The Quiet Work of Rangers

Friday Feelings – End of Week reflections.

As my conversations have moved beyond those who already work closely with nature, I have noticed people saying recently: “I didn’t know Birmingham had a Ranger Service.”

And yet, once you know you begin noticing the work Rangers do, and you start seeing their presence across the city’s green spaces.

Not always directly. Often quietly. But once you know you don’t forget.

A meadow that has been carefully managed rather than simply left.
A volunteer group that feels supported and connected.
A school session helping children notice insects, trees or birds for the first time.
A wellbeing walk.
A repaired relationship between people and a park.
A calm conversation on a difficult day.
A familiar face regularly checking in across a network of spaces and communities.

Much of the work of Rangers sits in that space between ecology, public service and human connection.

Across Birmingham’s “Red Wards” https://naturallybirmingham.org/environmental-justice/ and beyond, Rangers help connect people and nature every day.

That can include:

Supporting habitats and wildlife,
Leading walks and outdoor activities,
Working with volunteers and Friends groups,
Supporting schools and learning,
Helping people feel welcome outdoors,
Managing meadows, woodlands and nature spaces,
Building local partnerships,
and sometimes simply being a reassuring presence in a park.

What strikes me most is that much of this happens with very small teams covering very large areas. In some places there may only be one Ranger supporting an entire network of parks, projects, partnerships and people.

And yet the work continues. Not perfectly and not without pressure. But steadily.

There is resilience in that.

I think one of the strange things about difficult periods, particularly in public services and civic life, is that people can become hesitant to celebrate the work that is happening because there is still so much left unresolved.

Budgets remain difficult.
Teams are stretched.
Expectations often exceed capacity.
Nothing feels fully “finished”.

And Birmingham, like many places, is living through a politically and financially difficult period where uncertainty can easily overshadow quiet achievement.

But I do not think acknowledging people’s work means pretending everything is solved.

In fact, sometimes appreciation matters most precisely when circumstances are hard.

Because despite the pressures, Rangers are still there.

Still supporting parks.
Still supporting nature.
Still supporting communities.
Still helping maintain the fragile but important connections between people and green spaces across the city.

The reality is that Rangers cannot do everything — and no one expects them to.

But what they often bring is something harder to measure and easier to miss until it disappears:

Continuity,
Local knowledge,
Relationships,
Care,
Presence,
and connection.

The thread that quietly helps hold things together.

A City of Nature is not built only through strategies, governance structures or plans on paper.

It is also built through the steady everyday work of people who show up in all weathers and keep helping those connections grow: between people and place, between communities and nature, between wellbeing and green space and between organisations trying to work together across a complicated city.

Sometimes the work is highly visible, they do wear high viz vests. But sometimes it is still almost invisible. But invisible does not mean unimportant.

Perhaps that is the feeling sitting underneath this piece.

Not grand statements.
Not polished narratives.
Just a moment of noticing properly.

And a quiet thank you to Birmingham’s Rangers. Some of the people that are still out there helping keep those green threads connected across the city.

If you want to connect with the city’s rangers you can email them on: Cityofnature@birmingham.gov.uk

Burbury Park – Wild at Heart

Yesterday, I spent an hour and a half in Burbury Park.

It was one of the warmest days of the year so far. As I entered the park, the sound of children playing carried across the space telling a story of laughter, movement and life already unfolding before I reached the activity.

I spotted the green and white “Welcome!” banner flapping in the breeze and headed over to join Birmingham’s Park Rangers Penny and Teresa who were already playing with children and their families. I was going to say working with families, but although it is their job – yes. The word work just doesn’t do the scene justice.

The task was simple. Using clothes pegs as makeshift beaks, the children carefully picked up small sticks, working together to build a bird’s nest. There was concentration, cooperation, a shared sense of purpose. Once complete, the large nest was lined with soft dandelion flowers a gentle, instinctive act of care for the eggs that were laid in their imaginations. There’s the magic again.

Then came the next creation. Willow sticks and ivy trails became bird feeders, sculptures, bug hotels. Each one was different, shaped by unrestricted creativity and hands-on exploration. I spent time with Sonia, a brilliant local “Green Champion”, as we worked together on her own design. Later, she proudly modelled it as April’s “must-have” fashion item a lovely moment of joy that brought everyone together.

There was movement.
There was laughter.
There was learning, but not in a way that needed to be named as such.

And there was trust, between children and adults and between people and place. Conversation and ideas flowed and wove us all together just like the ivy wove the willow into something useful and joyful.

Towards the end, we gathered for a game of Wild Pairs, a memory test with cards face down on the grass that brought everyone into a shared circle. Each turn brought words of consolation and support or cheers of success as pairs were found and so much laughter. The last pair was found and brought the session to a natural close.

Penny and Theresa were heading back to the Lickey Hills, but before they went they pointed out the new noticeboard in the park were future events will be advertised which includes a City Nature challenge – Bio Blitz spotting and identifying plants and animals in the park.

Different ages, different roles, all part of the same moment. It lasted just over an hour. In a small urban park. And yet, it held everything.

It was accessible: open, local, easy to join.
It was green: rooted in nature, materials, and place.
It was healthy: movement, fresh air, connection, calm.
It was involved: people participating, creating, contributing.
It was valued: through care, attention, and shared experience.

From the outside, it could look simple. But behind it sits collaboration, planning, relationships, funding and that word again – trust! The things that makes these small but powerful moments possible.

And on the day, what remains is something else entirely.

An hour in the park. And a reminder that when the conditions are right, everything can come together – naturally.

You can find out more about the Councils Ranger Service Wild at Heart – Healthy Parks Programme here: https://naturallybirmingham.org/out-and-about-with-birminghams-park-rangers/

Distributed Leadership

There is a particular kind of powerful leadership that doesn’t always announce itself.

It doesn’t need to sit at the top of a structure.
It doesn’t always come with a leadership title.
And it rarely asks for permission.

Across the City of Nature Alliance, I see it often. People who notice something – a gap, a need, an opportunity and simply decide to act. Not because they have been told to and not because it sits neatly within a role description. But because it matters.

This kind of leadership doesn’t belong to one role, one background, or one type of person. It can come from anywhere. From those with years of experience, or those just beginning. From professionals, volunteers, community leaders, neighbours. What matters is not what you are or who you are but that you care enough to step forward.

Often, I notice this kind of natural leadership emerging in places and from people we don’t always formally recognise as leaders. Many of the City of Nature leaders are women, by no means only women, but when I look around it is a space that feels very different.

Shared leadership is not about everyone doing the same thing. It is about movement. One person steps forward when something needs to happen. Others support, contribute, or step back. Then, in a different moment, someone else takes the lead.

It shifts.
It responds.
It flows.

There is trust in this. Not always spoken, but understood. That when someone steps forward within their sphere and others recognise it.

Respect it.
And make space for it.

For shared leadership to work well, it depends on something deeper: That people feel able to step forward.

That their voice is welcomed.
That their contribution is valued.
That they are treated with respect.

It also means noticing who is in the room and who is not.

It means creating conditions where more people feel able to take part, not just those who are most confident or most familiar with the system.

We often recognise leadership most clearly at a strategic level. In plans, frameworks, and decisions about direction. But there is another form of leadership that is just as important and not always named as such. Leadership in delivery.

This is the leadership that happens: on the ground, in real time, n response to people, place and conditions.

It is the leadership of:

Adapting
Noticing
Making things work
Holding relationships
Responding when something doesn’t go to plan

It is easy to overlook because it doesn’t always look like leadership in the traditional sense. But without it, strategy cannot succeed and more than that:

Delivery should not only follow strategy – it should inform it

Those closest to the work, to communities, to places, to day-to-day realities hold insights that cannot always be seen from a distance. When those insights are heard and valued, strategy becomes stronger, more grounded and more responsive.

Through the development of the City of Nature Alliance, something else is beginning to emerge.

Not a single point of leadership, but something more – distributed.

A model where leadership is shared across organisations, roles and individuals shaped by context, capability and care.

It is still forming.
It is not fixed.
But it offers a different way of working.

Shared leadership is not only about stepping forward. It is also about how we respond when others do.

Do we listen?
Do we support?
Do we make space?

We often say someone needs to take a lead, but leadership is not just taken it is recognised and enabled by others.

Perhaps we don’t always pause to name this as leadership because it doesn’t always look like leadership in the traditional sense.

But it is there.
Every day.
In actions, decisions, and care.

In many ways, this kind of leadership is closer to how nature works than the structures we often try to impose.

It grows where the conditions are right.
It strengthens with care, attention and trust.
It shifts, adapts and responds over time.

And perhaps that is the shift we are beginning to see.

Not leadership held in one place,
but something more shared, more responsive — more human.

“Shared leadership is not about who leads, but about creating the conditions where anyone can, and where all contributions are recognised as part of something larger.”