August brings “the promise of golden sunsets, reminding us to find beauty in every ending.” I’m quite good at endings. It comes with practice I suppose – all those exam classes and drama productions which require your eyes to be fixed firmly on the end of the ‘project’ from the very beginning. Despite being the height of the school summer holiday (except in Scotland), August seems more like a beautiful ending. Harvest is in full swing; the leaves are turning; there’s plenty to forage in the hedgerows; chutney-making starts in earnest and if you’re lucky there’s a trip to a sunflower field, a saunter round a maize maze or a beach sunset to enjoy. This year, more than ever as the drought and high temperatures has brought everything forward. My garden is awash with brown leaves and I’ve been picking blackberries for weeks.

There’s no better way to spend an hour than in taking a glut of produce from the garden and turning it into chutney to fill the pantry for the winter or to pop into Christmas hampers. I don’t follow a recipe but add apple cider or red wine vinegar, brown sugar and a spice mix to whatever gluts we have of fruit. If you’d be happier following instructions, ask friends and family members if they have any heirloom recipes laying about. Chutney-making is the perfect opportunity to keep the past alive.

Three times this week I have been reminded that in times of stress and uncertainty there is a lot to be said for doing something familiar, whether that is the music you choose to play when giving birth, the familiar books you escape into when you’re unwell or the television programmes you rewatch when everything feels difficult. When life is uncertain, even small decisions start to feel heavy. That is exactly why the familiar becomes so valuable.

It's not a distraction from the hard stuff. It's a way of automating some of your choices, so you have more space for the ones that actually matter.

Anyone who has children will recognise their penchant for having the same bedtime story read to them time after time. I must have read Postman Pat’s Difficult Day thousands of times. However much I wanted to break out something new for my little bookworms at bedtime the comfort reading of PP and his exploits was doing sterling service. I like to explore the reasons behind why things work. It’s the teacher in me, honed over many years of coaching students in the most effective ways to learn and manage their mental health. And so here is the neuroscience behind my claim.

Reading a familiar story or rewatching a favourite TV programme calms the amygdala, reduces cognitive overload and activates the parasympathetic nervous system. In this instance familiarity doesn’t breed contempt; it provides predictability and soothes an overloaded nervous system.

It’s an anchor, not an escape.

If you've ever sat down to study, write, or practice a skill and looked up hours later wondering where the time went, you've experienced flow. Psychologists call it a state of complete absorption in an activity and as it happens this idea sits at the heart of one of the most talked-about happiness books of the last decade: Ikigai: The Japanese Secret to a Long and Happy Life by Héctor García and Francesc Miralles, which I’ve finally got around to reading

The book explores how the residents of Okinawa, one of the world's "Blue Zones" known for extraordinary longevity, tend to stay engaged, purposeful, and mentally sharp well into old age. One recurring thread throughout their stories is a deep, almost meditative absorption in daily tasks whether it's gardening (my ears pricked up here), martial arts, cooking, or craftsmanship. That absorption is flow, and understanding it can change how students and professionals alike approach their work.

It’s been a couple of weeks of community and belonging. I've been lucky enough to belong to several quite different communities over the years, and each has taught me something slightly different about what it means to show up for other people, and to let them show up for you. And I celebrated this with a visit to the Archers tribute garden at RHS Badminton. (Yes I am a paid-up member of the Archers Addicts.)

And so I’m reflecting on three communities to which I belong and what they bring to the people who belong to them.

The village gardening club

A new grief cafe in my local town

The professional network I joined when i stopped working full-time in school

The professional network I joined when i stopped working full-time in school

I often use pictures to promote discussion. A creative approach to opening up conversations was bread and butter to me as a teacher and pastoral head but it works just as well in sessions with bereaved clients or individuals thinking about memorial rituals, with couples who are planning their weddings and in coaching A Level students. It’s also a technique I use myself when setting goals for the future. This picture taken by Chris Doel perfectly reflects where I am halfway through the year at the solstice, where day and night are in equal balance, the perfect time to pause and reflect. I’ve come to a crossing point, over one stile and with another to climb, the path ahead clear but for now I’m content to stand in the middle surrounded by wildness, pause, reflect and plan.

My brief foray back to teaching ends tomorrow. The final A Level English Literature exam is in the morning. From the very first lesson I taught back at Goffs School in 1991 to the last one a couple of weeks ago before the current students went on study leave, the subject of motivation is something we have pondered. There is always a gardening analogy to be found and no better place to illustrate how motivation works than in the garden.

My grief counselling days take me into gardens, onto allotments, and into overgrown plots that clients have been meaning to tackle for months. The conversation that happens most reliably, somewhere between pulling the first weed and filling the first trug, is this: “I don't know why I've been putting this off. I actually feel so much better now I've started.”

They're not imagining it. What they're noticing is a real neurochemical shift, and it happens faster than most people expect.

My husband is currently researching the Lynmouth Flood, which marks its 75th anniversary next year, using his well- honed genealogical research skills to flesh out the stories of the people who sadly lost their lives. Conversation inevitably turns to the one recovered victim who has not been identified. Why weren't they reported missing? Who did they matter to? Surely we all hope that we matter to someone?

Mooching around Toppings in Bath after work as I do fairly regularly, I picked up a copy of Mattering by Jennifer Breheny Wallace.

The premise of Wallace’s book is simple, and that’s what made it so readable. Feeling that you matter to someone or somehow doesn’t just give you a warm, fuzzy feeling; it's a core human need, as essential as food or sleep. It’s in our DNA. To our ancestors mattering meant being included in the tribe, safety. Literally a matter of life and death.