WEED WHACKING
A great way to clear the mind
The dahlias may be ridiculously garish, but they don’t judge my black mood.
Sometimes I get sad. Depression has hampered me since I can remember and so sometimes I get sad. There are things that help, other things that need to be avoided and some things that are as necessary as air.
My garden, my ridiculously-large, on-the-brink-of-a-wilderness garden is one of those things.
The wisteria that weeps in an elegant melancholy couldn’t give a damn if I’m wearing my pyjamas at 1 o’clock in the afternoon and my favourite rose bush reminds me that thorns are OK.
I lie on the grass and listen to the birds. They are busy doing life stuff and the rooster across the road lets me know that I am not alone.
It’s a hollow, absolutely-no-reasonto-be, kind of a sad that I feel at times and my garden is completely cool with that. So is my dog.
One of the beauties of having a garden that you can call your own is a knowledge that there is a place that will always welcome you.
The dahlias may be ridiculously garish, but they don’t judge my black mood and the speedwell that coats my lawn is happy to wrap me up in its duck-egg blue.
It’s the weeds that tell you to get out of your funk. They have no patience for dark thoughts and demand life-affirming action. Pulling out the judgmental bastards is the best therapy there is.
And I have plenty. A whole day can be spent in just one corner of my voluptuous garden.
I can talk to no-one, I can get muddy and messy, and I can dig my hands into the dirt until that is all there is left in my mind. I can weed myself back into myself and I can go back into the world, somewhat messier and more dishevelled than before, but I can walk back through the door.
Gardens become a part of you and they tuck thoughts away that you choose to hand them. They can hold space and silence and most importantly, when your world is not exactly full of rainbows, they can hold beauty and a bed full of weeds that will shout at you to stop lying on the bloody lawn.