There’s a story my mum likes to tell about me as a child. I would have been three, four years old; big enough to walk, old enough to talk and open doors.

In the mornings I used to wake early. My dad did, too. The train he caught to work each day left at six-thirty in the morning, so he’d be up at five doing his exercises, eating his breakfast, and, being the introvert I know he is, likely enjoying some quiet time, away from his young daughter and baby.

I was usually up before dad.

My day started at about four-thirty. I would get my little self out of bed in my Care Bear pyjamas and put on my dressing gown, and, in slippered feet, I’d unlock the door, walk down the stairs and go into the garden.

There, I would sit and talk to the flowers.

Apparently I’d do this for quite some time.

My parents, knowing nothing of this, learned of my unusual conversationalist skills when my neighbour saw me on his way to work.

He’d ask what I was doing. So I told him.

Soon, my routine became his routine. We’d chat, the two of us, in those early hours before his work, before my kindy, our families both asleep in different houses.

The four year old me grew into a bigger child, a teenager, a young adult, a professional with stress and responsibility. Now I have a full life. A busy life. And it’s easy to forget those early lessons, the conversations in the pre-dawn light.

Some part of me remembers, though, because wherever I am, however I am living, I don’t feel at home until a garden is growing around me.

Some early mornings you’ll find me on the balcony, speaking my secret tongue.

I guess you could say I’ve always been me. It just takes some remembering to become me again.