Questioning her lifestyle after diagnosis with Parkinson's, Lesley searches for answers within the natural world.
Eighteen months after initially seeing a neurologist, and the stark reality of her 60th birthday fast approaching, she takes matters into her own hands. On this twelve-month journey of immersing herself within the fascinating world of the countryside, she shares her ups and downs in the form of a journal: weaving thoughts, memories and observations together with an avid interest of both natural and cultural history.
Questioning her lifestyle after diagnosis with Parkinson's, Lesley searches for answers within the natural world.
Eighteen months after initially seeing a neurologist, and the stark reality of her 60th birthday fast approaching, she takes matters into her own hands. On this twelve-month journey of immersing herself within the fascinating world of the countryside, she shares her ups and downs in the form of a journal: weaving thoughts, memories and observations together with an avid interest of both natural and cultural history.
In 2017 after concerns about unexplained physical symptoms including tingling and a tremor, I was diagnosed with Parkinsonâs Disease. Before this appointment with a neurologist, itâs not as though I didn't realise, deep down, there was an issue of some sort, but never expected this conclusion.
After all, I was in my fifties, having gone through the menopause; all those aches and pains, and names escaping me, were just things that happened. Time after time came jokes about forgetting. For me it wasn't so much the name of a person, it was âthingsâ I had been using for years.
âI'm just having a menopausal moment,â I laughed.
Having read articles written by others on overcoming this annoying problem, that's how I thought of it, only temporary: something that would rectify itself once those dratted hormones settled down. I bowed to those with far more experience and knowledge about memory problems.
So, I made myself link the word to an image in my mind, as you do. It was no use trying to conjure up a picture of the object itself because there it was in front of me! Teasing me with its presence. Laughing at my inability to recall its name.
What did it do â this âthingâ that eluded me?
Where was it kept?
Then there was the other âthingâ. That had something to do with the cooker as well, but what was it called?
Even now, my mind is searching its recesses trying to recall the first letter. If I get that far the rest should follow. It's flat and it can take lots of heat without burning. It is non-stick. That's it! Teflon sheet.
What a chore. I know the next time the same process will happen again and then there is no guarantee it will return as quickly. Some days taking an hour or two, before a word suddenly pops into my mind out of nowhere.
That particular day in the October, when I found myself answering the door with a blank look on my face and no knowledge of the person standing in front of me, was the last straw. My brain was telling me something was wrong, but I didn't know what. This was not me. Previously a little voice said, âOh yes, you silly idiot, I remember now!â Not this time.
I still get the odd day when these types of terrifying experience occur, but knowing I have Parkinsonâs and understanding what is going on in my brain helps me to remain calm and wait until the neurons complete their message.
Exercise is known to help control Parkinsonâs, but as yet there is no cure. Just the knowledge that its symptoms will gradually get worse. Itâs a sneaky disease; you never know what will be thrown at you. One day I can feel on top of the world, the next I plunge into the depths of anxiety.
The combination and progress of symptoms is not the same for each person. Outwardly nobody would guess there was anything wrong with me. Tremors in my left hand are kept under control by medication. Then again, some stressful situation will set it going once again. If my head is being bombarded from all angles, with thoughts fermenting as though ready to explode, my right hand will decide to join in.
Itâs the unseen effects plaguing me (non-motor symptoms) which are the worst. These can be numerous, and not everyone has them all. Iâm not going to list them here, thatâs best left for medical journals. I needed to discover a way of combating these. To find a path to follow for a future.
A neurological condition isnât the easiest of diagnoses to come to terms with. Not only because of it being degenerative, but also because there is no handbook which says âthis is what will happenâ. The symptoms are very individual.
Trying to communicate with me was like âthrowing ping-pong balls at a hedgehogâ, as my husband, Paul, described it. How could I explain all happiness had been stripped from within me? My thoughts dwelt on bad experiences, blind to the times which had brought me pleasure.
I am positive that if I hadnât already been involved in creative occupations, my health would have deteriorated into a far worse state.
Having Parkinsonâs does have its benefits, strange as that may seem. Mainly giving me the incentive to change the direction of life. Looking on the positive side is a means of coping, and to enable me to achieve this, medication has been a necessity. While coming to terms with the condition (if that is ever truly possible), my determination to use more natural methods of controlling this interloper has increased. For as long as I can, itâs a must.
The diagnosis remains embedded in my memory as though it were yesterday. No shock, or outrage. No tears welled, ready to fall. I just sat there. The neurologistâs mouth moved, telling me the basic facts of Parkinsonâs. As though Iâd crawled inside myself, the person staring out through my eyes and listening to her words was merely an onlooker.
Paul, was in the waiting room when I came out.
âI'm just going to have some blood tests done, to rule out certain things,â I explained, sitting down on the blue plastic chair next to him.
âWhat did she say?â
âI know what it is,â I said.
âWell?â
âI'll tell you outside.â
I didn't want to say anything there in front of all the other patients. Not that I was particularly worried about them overhearing, but Iâd become suddenly afraid of my reaction on those words actually coming from my own mouth.
âI've got the same as your grandmother had.â
He was repeating the question as though he hadn't heard my answer. On the third time of asking me I blurted out.
âI have Parkinson's disease.â
âI'm just going for a jimmy riddle, I won't be long.â
Not an enormous amount of time passed before he emerged from the toilet, but long enough.
There are no recollections of the return journey from the hospital. Whether the car was full of silence, or I related the conversation with the neurologist, remains a question.
Back at home we stood opposite each other in the kitchen. I cried then only because Paul broke down into a flood of tears. We cuddled. I desperately needed to keep in control, yet knew it would hit me later â a foregone conclusion.
I was by myself the following day, in the shower, when bottled up emotions erupted. Tears mingling with warm water, until inside me became equally naked. I stepped out. The empty compartment, now closed off by sliding doors, reflected the internal workings of my mind. In the steam-covered mirror I wondered who the person before me really was, with her eyes divorced from all emotion.
Finally, we talked: about Parkinson's, what I'd been told, his grandmother's experience of the disease, and deciding to tell family members â not really comprehending why at the time, but sensing it was the right thing to do. It wasn't only my life that changed that day, but Paul's too.
Can I write about the days that followed six years ago? No. It remains too raw, too personal, and too painful to put out into the wider world. The truth is I donât want to recall memories which only add fuel to symptoms needing to be kept under control.
On the whole, medication does its job in reducing the physical consequences of this condition, but the non-motor ones are more difficult. Anxiety and stress Iâve battled against every day. Prior to my diagnosis it festered, every hour tightening its grip â unbeknown to me â gradually taking all enjoyment out of life and ending in an unwanted solitary existence.
My intention in writing this book is not to focus on the disease itself, but rather on how turning to the countryside helped me, and hopefully help other people who have similar conditions.
I personally believe things happen for a reason. Not everyday events, but ones which are really life changing. During these emotional upheavals, nature has always been my solace, and never more so than now. Absorbing the soothing touch of wind blowing through my hair, brushing out unwanted knots of muddled thoughts. Easing the tightness in my chest, as the birds chatter, scent of freshly cut grass filling the air, and the fascination of the tiniest of creatures to be found lurking in the vegetation.
This is a small section of my journey. The twelve months prior to my sixtieth birthday â a landmark in itself. When past events intertwined with the present, on my path to the future.
Chapter 1
August (shown in b/w illustration with a kingfisher and dragonfly)
The Journey Begins
Was it a dream which brought me to this?
Perhaps all thatâs needed is nature's kiss
To waken the spirit still inside.
Surely no need to continue to hide.
To spread my wings and try to fly
Like a mini dragon who inhabits the sky.
Where to start â a place which is known
And seeds of life have always grown.
An evergreen crown standing big and strong
Predating years of Christian song.
Rich in mythology from pagan days
These symbols reminders of different ways.
My journey begins with this in mind
Yet memories past, not left behind.
To rid the confusion which has been dealt
Into nature's arms I'll find myself melt.
Glimmers of light have entered the dark abyss I was dragged into by this disease. Finding a place to wipe away the increasing anxiety that has gripped the last ten years of my life is, in itself, the perfect medication. A tonic I could drown in everyday of the week.
    So here I am, at the old watermill in Bunbury. Standing next to the flowing tresses of a weeping willow moving gently in unison with the breeze, her tranquillity wrapping me with welcoming arms. Located on the banks of the river Gowy, which ambles its way through the Cheshire countryside, the mill oozes âwildlife havenâ. My sanctuary, away from the frenetic rumbling of traffic and throngs of people that is city life.
    This restored Victorian watermill has a visitor centre, which isn't open today, and thereâs not a walker in sight. No dogs bounding across the grass, or owners trying to retrieve them from duck chasing, so I can revel in the wildlife without interruption. On such a pleasant late summerâs day, nearing the end of August, only the repetitive sounds of water gushing from the millpond overflow dominate. Creating swirls as it falls, before dashing against small rocks to form crescendos of white foam. Once more becoming a stream and, in subsequent calmness, continuing its journey past the waterwheel. Winding onward it disappears, through surrounding woodland, into the distance.
Soft rippling reflections in the pond itself are only interrupted by resident ducks. Mallards currently shade beneath the overhanging tree. Tiny feathers litter the ground, all that's left from their seasonal moult. Proudly one stands up to show off her fine new coat. A quick preen, after the vain anticipation of my having brought food, she returns to her siesta.
Over by the small picnic area, magnificent rich fuchsia-pink roses beckon me. Providing the ideal spot for insects to enjoy in this late summer sunshine, I approach. Itâs not only the smooth, open petals that greet me, or the bulbous red-orange hips, but to my delight a dragonfly. The golden threads of his wings shimmer in the mellow afternoon light. Food is utmost in mind, as in a blink of my eye he leaps into the sky and back down again. Fresh lunch there in his mouth.
Time and again, almost invisible to the human eye, flies find their way between those prehistoric jaws. My newly acquired insect friend is rather a show-off. Landing on the picnic table beside me, he strikes a pose. Quite content to languish in the warmth with a lens thrust up close. What a privilege, this small creature allowing such intimacy; sharing a part of his brief life with me â a monster-sized being. I savour each minute, for it may never happen again.
Another dragonfly appears, wiping away dismal thoughts. Not as magnificent, this one doesn't possess the same striking markings: those odd dashes of red, and yellow stripes on the side of the thorax. In no need of sustenance, it perches on the sword-shaped leaf of a yellow iris gently curving over towards the ground. The deep pineapple-coloured flowers, having died earlier in the month, are now replaced by large green pods nurturing precious seeds within.
Suddenly, thereâs a blue flash. Itâs a larger emperor dragonfly. I stand up in eager expectation, watching as it soars high over the pond. One moment there, the next passing above me, then vanishing as quickly as it arrived. Unlike the more familiar common darter (which I think my friend is), there was never any intention of landing to either feed or warm itself. No wonder this more elusive specimen is less photographed. I sigh, imagining how wonderful capturing its image would be.
I find dragonflies to be one of the most captivating insects. This part of Bunbury village provides ideal conditions. The river further upstream supplies slow moving water for this more dominant sky-blue hawker variety. Whereas the pond gives darters all they need to lay their cigar-shaped eggs, ready to mature over winter.
Being agile flyers, dragonflies go forward, and apparently backward, with equal ease. The one time they can be perfectly still for an hour, or even more, is when mating. Last year, two pairs were doing just that on this same wooden fence that roses grow against. So engrossed in conceiving the next generation, they were oblivious to all else. Amazingly, the bright male bodies did blend into the surroundings, although only from a distance. Ideal camouflage from predators, but not me and my camera.
Equally at home in ponds and meres today as they were in the primeval swamps of this county, these mesmerising creatures have barely changed since their ancestral beginnings before the age of dinosaurs. It's hardly surprising they are revered in many cultures. Our ancestors believed dragonflies to be souls of the departed come back to visit loved ones.
Often depicted as fairy transport, poems and mystical tales abound throughout history to the present day. They have been identified by many other names, including the devil's darning needle, mosquito hawk, spindle, snake feeder, and snake doctor. The most intriguing one, to me, is ether's nild.
I had to find out why such a beauty should be called by this unappealing name. Research leads me to an early twentieth-century book entitled Precious Bane by Mary Webb. She writes, âWe called the dragon-fly the ether's mon or ether's nild at Sarn, for it was supposed that where the adder, or ether, lay hid in the grass, there above hovered the ether's mon as a warning.â
Sarn Mere, is her fictional name for Bomere Pool in Shropshire. Here she also tells of other dragonflies âOne kind, all blue, we called the kingfisher; and another one, with a very thin body, the darning-needle.â
Discovering the creative art of photography came a little later than I would have liked. My first marriage had ended in failure, giving me the opportunity to embrace a new world. I never imagined becoming a professional photographer, but I fell in love with the process. Like many people, the only experience Iâd had prior was using an 110 cartridge film camera. With its slim horizontal strip and off-centre lens, it was too easy to end up with a great image of my finger.
By the age of thirty, having completed a City & Guilds course in both photography and dark-room printing, I started earning a living as a portrait and wedding photographer. For relaxation there were flowers to take images of. Getting up close in macro enthralled me even then.
Once digital took over from the old SLRs, lots of bargains could be had, especially for manual accessories, so I treated myself to a fixed macro lens. For some reason though, Parkinsonâs now tells me there isnât the strength in my hands to use it. I have no idea whether itâs tricking me by sending false messages, or not.
My relationship with this disease has been one of alternating acceptance and disbelief. New ideas, adventure, and even my work, all disappeared into that black hole. My mind was taken over by an interloper who Iâd kick out, only for him to return.
Itâs made me question many aspects of myself, what has gone, and the future. For so many years, work dominated everything. Being on the computer day after day, isolating myself from friends and family. Not out of choice, but what I believed was of necessity in order to be a successful businesswoman.
Here, in these surroundings, Iâm a photographer again. Despite this tripod becoming an unwanted necessity, rather than an aide, peace and contentment fill my very soul. Through the viewfinder, I enter another world.
Like a mountain, this dragonflyâs thorax arches. From it the wings emerge. Currently splayed out, these fine gossamer wings decorated with delicate veins, rest on the wooden picnic bench beneath him. A striking red-orange tail stretches out behind. At the opposite end of this primordial body, huge brown eyes sit either side of his head, containing around thirty thousand hexagonal lenses and giving 360-degree vision. From this round face protrude whisker-like hairs. A mouth, slightly ajar, hovers barely a fraction of an inch above the wood; he appears to be smiling.
Each leg is covered with hairs otherwise hidden from view. One pair point forwards, resembling grabber tools with forked ends. The middle sections remind me of millipedes, with hairs of both thick and fine needle shapes. Perhaps such additional sensory accessories are needed to replace that lack of close-up vision. Which helped me to sneak up on him initially. That last statement would make anyone who knows me laugh. Even as a child I was notorious for being a âfairy elephantâ. Me and sneaking are not two words that go together!
I bought my first glossy leaflet about dragonflies while visiting Abberton Reservoir in Essex. Twenty-two species live in the British Isles, yet in this area of Cheshire itâs predominantly the common and red darters. The adult females with their ochre bodies are rather more elusive this year. As for other varieties, they seem to secrete themselves elsewhere in the county; places like Shocklach.
On closer inspection, my companion has one missing component: a leg. In all likelihood he nearly became a meal for another higher in the food chain. Being on the large side perhaps he'll be lucky and survive the remainder of his two-month lifespan.
Standing watching the odd duck-feather, intermingled with leaves, hurtling over the side and down the overflow, suddenly a brilliant blue creature streaks across the pond. It returns at equal speed, before I can even raise the camera. Landing briefly on a stone jutting out from the sluice, heâs gone. Disappearing back into the trees along which the water courses. Mesmerised by the kingfisherâs metallic coat, for that second when he was not in flight, thereâs an impulse to jump up and down with excitement (the mind is willing, but not my body).
    Never before have I witnessed a kingfisher in its natural habitat. For all the zoo visits in my younger days to view animals from all over the world, Iâm discovering the wildlife in this country is just as spectacular. For ten minutes I wait, but heâs not making an appearance again, and neither is my dragonfly friend.
Another of my favourite insects is behind the mill, hanging from a lithesome plant. A comma caterpillar preparing to change into a chrysalis. Still retaining the appearance of a spiky black upside-down walking stick, it suspends from the threads made to secure itself. Being conspicuous in the dappled light, and precariously dangling over a little ravine, I wonder whether it will survive.
There are few events more captivating than watching such a metamorphosis, as I once found out. Discovering a similar chrysalis, hanging within the dying leaves of a hops plant in our garden, there was every intention of seeing that change. Sadly, it subsequently disappeared. This inspired the idea to try and raise our own butterflies.
It was a cold spring day when they arrived through the post. There they were, five tiny black wriggling caterpillars, in what appeared to be a transparent plastic drinking cup complete with lid. This would be their home for the next three weeks. Aware of nothing else, they'd eat the food provided in this container. Not the thistles nature provides, but nutrient-filled mush. They gave the impression of being happy enough.
No longer than a quarter of an inch, the smallest died during its first moult. Not an unusual occurrence, this meant more food for the remaining four. Days passed. Weeks passed. More skin shedding. Longer and fatter they grew. Each day exploring their environment, but never encroaching on another's domain unless for food.
Intriguingly, each caterpillar had its own individual characteristics. One took to inhabiting the bottom, two medium-sized ones preferred hanging around together in the middle area, while the largest and most dominant held the top territory.Â
The smallest and shyest, despite being closest to the food, was first to undergo its transformation â after traipsing its way up to the top. It was quickly followed by the middle pair. Finally, the fattest one, having spent a whole day making sure she was securely attached to the underside of the lid, began her dramatic change. From tail end up to top, slowly each section stopped moving until only the head wriggled at intervals. Eventually even this halted and the leaf-brown chrysalis was complete. Never rock hard, the odd movement still occurred.
It was time for their move. Having subsequently fallen into the bottom, two had to be gently rolled out with a long-haired paintbrush (arousing my suspicions that the larger sibling had loosened their threads while constructing her own). At last, they lay on soft paper in a new home. Large and airy, where the sun rays caressed without burning: a mini indoor greenhouse. The other two, removed with equal care, remained securely attached to the paper section of the lid. All ready for their emergence, excitement filled the air.
I swear these caterpillars knew we were waiting. Paul and I took turns throughout the day, yet the first three were determined to hatch during the night. Of course, being asleep, we missed each one. Finally, number four made an evening appearance.
The head popped out first, followed by the rest of the body before she kicked off her shell. There were no plants to climb, but natural instinct is there. Crumpled up kitchen roll formed mounds. Like any newborn those first few steps were wobbly, often falling over. She then expelled a substance resembling watery blood â excess fluid from the pupating process.
Tilly, as I named her, climbed the nearest mound. Once comfortably settled at the top she began pumping special liquid (hemolymph that provides a similar function to blood in vertebrates) into her damp, crumpled wings. Slowly they expanded until fully outstretched in all their vibrant orange beauty: tips edged with black, and touches of white. The largest, most stunning painted lady butterfly I'd ever gazed upon.
We never see the ones who don't make it for whatever reason. Sadly, number three was born with a deformity to her wings and couldn't fly. It would have been too cruel to release her into the wild with her siblings. Instead, she spent her life with us, feeding from lovely ripe honeydew melons.
Leaving the soon-to-be chrysalis, I return to the pond. Laying my head on a picnic table, I momentarily close my eyes. To the rhythmic sounds of water and insect buzzing, my mind becomes oblivious to all else. Thoughts drift away into the relative coolness of an adjacent treeâs shadow. Only the hard surface keeps me from drifting into unconsciousness.
    Suddenly, the barking of excited dogs fills the air. Iâm fully awake. Time to head home.
***
The countryside has always been a comfort to me, without ever realising why. Yet being diagnosed with Parkinsonâs has really brought it into focus. Ageing has one main benefit and that is experience of life. Thinking back can be rather nostalgic at times, but there is also despondency â in how nature has been sacrificed for technology. I am guilty of being sucked into a lifestyle dominated by such, and it isnât really me. Itâs taken until now to acknowledge that.
***
An early morning mist lingering over the tree tops is a reminder of autumn being close. The calendar tells me it's August bank holiday weekend. Which means Bunbury Mill will be open tomorrow, and Monday, for visitors to enjoy guided tours inside and watch how corn and flour has been milled there since 1844.
    An image of the chrysalis forms in my mind. Thereâs nothing for it; without making others aware of its existence, I have to revisit today. These four walls often swing from being a refuge to a prison. A good excuse to get out of the house. Tomatoes, bread, spring onions and a flask of elderflower juice are soon ready.
The air retains its coolness as I arrive. Deposits of dew dampen all surfaces now the mists have dispersed. Different creatures creep about in the undergrowth, more visible than in the heat of previous days. Long, moist iris leaves make a perfect sanctuary for tiny translucent snails, who are out in large numbers, while the sun hides behind pale grey clouds. At first glance these molluscs appear to be the same shade as their green surroundings, but it is simply a reflection.
    To my surprise, the chrysalis is still here. Having the appearance of being nothing more than another dried leaf, its location would have remained a secret. Potential predators will easily overlook this seemingly insignificant and decaying part of the plant, while inside unique activity takes place. I cannot imagine the experience of having your whole body put through a blender, not unlike a smoothie, only to emerge as a winged deity.
Research shows that a butterfly can retain memories made in its earlier life form. I doubt I would in such circumstances. These faculties werenât marvellous in the first place, but since Parkie gained influence trying to access them is like climbing a stem; I finally get to the top to find the flower (information) has disappeared. I decided to call this disease Parkie for short â after all, heâs been living with us for a long time already, unnamed. It may help with acceptance of his presence in our lives.
An interesting patch of pink and white flowers, nestling adjacent to the visitorâs centre, catches my attention. I remember these. Perhaps because I saw them along a river bank in North Wales a few years ago, and discovered they are Himalayan balsam â an invasive plant brought into the country by our Victorian ancestors.
From a side angle the flowers resemble bonnets women wore in the 1800s, yet from the front there's an enticing appearance of an orchid about them. One particular white flower-head intrigues me, a single glowing raindrop mystically hangs from its petal. It must have rained here during the night, for this is too large to be dew. More water droplets nestle on clusters of green-tinted buds, dangling from the stem as though mini chandeliers. Attractive, edible, enticing to pollinators, yet deadly to native specimens. These plants, each one of which can produce over eight hundred seeds, spread rapidly and are illegal to sow in the wild.
Nearby trees cast their shadows, creating a cooler environment around a small stagnant pond. Down by my leg another teeny snail climbs a stem, a shiny mottled-brown shell on its back. Its white body is so translucent, the stalks of its black eyes go deep into the skin. Quite creepy, I tell myself with a shiver.     Â
My buzzerâs going off: tablet time! Not so much of an inconvenience as on other occasions, Iâm used to the routine of taking them. Before getting this vibrating timer, I could never remember to take them at the specific time.
I also developed a good system to jog my memory. This includes always being accompanied by the pill-box when out, whether in a pocket or handbag. I always have a bottle of water, otherwise theyâre a bugger to swallow down. At home, they must remain next to the kettle in kitchen. This took over from the blackboard reminders, often forgotten too.
As a younger person I hated routines, thinking them a necessary evil. I suppose to some extent that emotional reaction is still with me. Since taking medication this predictable aspect is a necessity. Iâve learnt to stop immediately when the timer goes off, even if it means losing the chance of a wonderful image. I wonder if insect life also suffers with neurological problems.
Come to think about it, I do recall some research into the effects of pesticides on bees. How ingesting these, found in the pollen, causes their body-clock neurons to go haywire. They become hyperactive, don't sleep, and eventually are not able to locate the hive. Heaven-forbid, getting my lefts and rights muddled is one thing, but hopefully Iâll always find my way home!
Whispers on the Wind by Lesley Howard is a beautiful and seamless blend of personal narrative, nature observations, and mindful journaling. Taking us through her journey following a diagnosis of Parkinson's disease, Howard chronicles a year immersed in the natural world as she confronts and adapts to her evolving reality. This intimate and detailed observation work offers readers an in-depth exploration of resilience, groundedness, and the therapeutic power of nature.
The book is structured with the months of the year, and it closely mirrors the cycles of nature itself, allowing Howard to weave observations of flora and fauna with her inner reflections. She writes with poetic sensitivity and imagery, describing dragonflies, fungi, and oak trees with vivid detail that invites the reader into her world. The prose is often lyrical, capturing the visual beauty but also the textures and rhythms of the countryside.
Howardâs narrative also goes beyond nature's aesthetic. She engages deeply with the ecological and cultural histories of the landscapes she traverses. From exploring the myths of birch trees to recounting the medicinal uses of fungi, she enriches her journey with a sense of interconnectedness between humanity and the natural world. These interludes provide a subtle but powerful reminder of what modern society has often overlooked: the wisdom and solace that nature can offer.
At its heart, the book is a deeply personal account of living with Parkinson's. Howard does not shy away from the challengesâmemory lapses, physical limitations, and the emotional tollâbut her approach is neither defeatist nor overly sentimental. Instead, she embraces the changes with pragmatism and a determination to find meaning and joy where she can. Her openness about the struggles she faces adds authenticity to her story, while her moments of triumph, such as photographing a dragonfly or completing a challenging hike, resonate with a quiet but profound sense of accomplishment.
The book's pacing, however, might not be for every reader's appetite. The attention to detail and visual imageries, while enriching and poignant, occasionally feels overwhelming, particularly when descriptions of specific plants, animals, or landscapes extend for several pages.
Despite these minor shortcomings, Whispers on the Wind is a testament to the healing potential of the natural world. Howardâs reflections inspire readers to pause, observe, and find beauty in the ordinary. The book is not just a chronicle of one womanâs journey with illness; it is a call to reconnect with the environment and to discover solace in its ever-changing, yet constant, embrace.
This work will appeal to lovers of nature writing, memoir enthusiasts, and anyone seeking stories of resilience and hope. Lesley Howardâs journey is both unique and universal, offering wisdom and inspiration to those navigating their own challenges. In Whispers on the Wind, she reminds us that even in the face of adversity, there is beauty to be found in the world around usâand within ourselves.