Diary of a Young Naturalist

...I love dandelions. They make me feel like sunshine itself, and you will always see some creature resting on an open bloom, if you have a little patience to wait. This vital source for all emerging pollinators is a blast of uplifting yellow to brighten even the greyest of days. It stands tall and proud, unlike all the others opening and swaying in the breeze. The odd one out.

Many people accuse me of “not looking autistic”. I have no idea what that means. I know lots of ‘autistics’ and we all look different. We are not some recognisable breed. We are human beings. If we’re not out of the ordinary, it’s because we’re fighting to hide our real selves

If you brew your own cauldron, magic will surely happen.

Dave asks me to hold one of the birds, and as I bring it close to my chest its body heat illuminates me. I start to fill with something visceral. This is who I am. This is who we all could be. I am not like these birds but neither am I separate from them. Perhaps it's a feeling of love, or a longing. I don't know for certain. It is a rare feeling, a sensation that most of my life (full of school and homework) doesn't have the space for.

I’m lying on the ground looking up at the branches of an oak tree. Dappled light is shining through the canopy, the leaves whisper ancient incantations. This tree, in its living stage, rooted in sights and sounds that I’ll never know, has witnessed extinctions and wars, loves and losses. I wish we could translate the language of trees – hear their voices, know their stories. They host such an astonishing amount of life – there are thousands of species harbouring in and on and under this mighty giant. And I believe trees are like us, or they inspire the better parts of human nature. If only we could be connected in the way this oak tree is connected with its ecosystem.

I keep visualising time as a length of string, with a flame burning at one end that represents the present, where we can act and be most alive. The ashes are the past, the intact string is the future. The string splits every time something happens. The dead are ashes: they still exist and never leave us. I can feel the string descending, still blazing in parts, but mostly it is crisp and brown and stretched out ahead.

I have the heart of a naturalist, the head of a would-be scientist, and bones of someone who is already wearied by the apathy and destruction wielded against the natural world.

As I ran to join my family for the last stretch of the walk at Glendalough, leaving St Kevin and the blackbird behind, a solar glare draped over us, connected us to the land with invisible strings. A longer, heavier line is about to be cast into the world. My heart is opening. I'm ready.

The gravel path ahead is covered in leathery beech leaves, and they squelch or crunch depending on whether the water is running of the Sitka bank. The leaf litter suddenly changes to sweet chestnut. I touch the furrowed bark of one tree, my fingers settling in the grooves. We pause by a pond, still as glass until gentle ripples are set off by fish below the surface. The water is earth-brown and surrounded by widely spaced conifers and some goat willows iwth low-lying, outstretched branches almost touching the water. Suddenly, there are cones raining down. We stop to look up, spotting an auburn shape tousling the branches of a Sitka tree. We crane our heads until the cold seeps in. The movement stops and the red squirrel just seems to vanish into thin air.

I'm surrounded by five or six fly agaric mushrooms. Like them, I have burst open. I feel more resilient, more powerful. [...] I can't just love the natural world. I have to raise my voice even louder to help it. It is my duty, the duty of all of us, to support and protect nature. Our life support system, our interconnectedness, our interdependence.

The heavens open and close in about two minutes, and then the flickers of of light dart before our eyes: dragonflies, their silken wings etched with the maps of the Carboniferous(their wings spanned six feet when their ancestors flew with dinosaurs). They zoom still, like turbo-boosted flecks of light and showing us glimpses of eons past.