| Why Insects Still Bring Me Joy Joy is not always loud. Sometimes it’s the quiet satisfaction of lifting a spade and finding movement where you expected none. A pause before digging further. A decision to work around, not through. A recognition that you are not alone in the space you are shaping. Insects have been with me for as long as I can remember — from jam jars and secret collections, to rainforest abundance, to the restrained, patient worlds beneath British soil. They have frightened me, fascinated me, hurt me, taught me, and ultimately grounded me. What they never did was bore me. Insects bring me joy because they demand attention without demanding ownership. You can’t possess them in any meaningful way — you can only notice them. And in a world obsessed with control, that feels quietly radical. They taught me early that life does not exist for our comfort. Australia showed me danger and consequence. Malaysia showed me abundance and mortality. Britain showed me subtlety and persistence. Each place reshaped my understanding of what “alive” really means. As a gardener now, that joy has matured into respect. I don’t garden despite insects — I garden with them. I leave corners untidy on purpose. I allow decay. I accept damage. I trust predation. Where insects thrive, balance follows. Where they disappear, something has gone wrong. Behind the spade, insects are no longer curiosities or collections. They are collaborators. A spider rebuilding after disruption tells me resilience is holding. Beetles running under logs tell me the soil is fed. Woodlice curling in damp leaf litter tell me the moisture is right. Even mosquitoes — unwelcome as they are — remind me that life adapts faster than intention. Insects bring me joy because they refuse to be decorative. They don’t perform. They don’t wait for approval. They exist because the conditions allow them to exist — and that, in the end, is the most honest measure of any landscape. This series began with childhood curiosity and ends with adult gratitude. Somewhere between the two, the need to collect gave way to the need to observe. The desire to interfere softened into the willingness to listen. The garden did the rest. If there is one thing insects have taught me, it is this: Life does not need to be invited. It needs to be allowed. And when you allow it — truly allow it — joy has a way of turning up quietly, on many legs, just behind the spade. |
Earthly Comforts 