Tending the garden and finding yourself
“It is enough
To smell, to crumble the dark earth, While the robin sings over again Sad songs of Autumn mirth.”
— From the poem “Digging” by Edward Thomas (1878-1917)
The garden is in its glory now, decked out in all its finery.
The rose bushes have finally burst into bloom — two weeks later than last year — in shades of white, yellow, pink, peach, lavender, fuchsia and crimson, each with its own delicate scent. On breezy days, the wind plucks at the petals until they embellish the ground like short paint strokes from an impressionist’s brush.
As I write this, rain has started falling, dripping in fat silvery drops straight from the sky — a rarity in these parts, where precipitation falls sideways as often as not, driven by the frequent gales.
It is rain that is badly needed after an unusually hot dry spell, a run of weather that has sucked all moisture out of the soil, leaving it dry and crumbly, the whole yard like a potted plant that has been left too long on a windowsill. Listen carefully and you imagine you can hear the plants exhaling pale green sighs of relief.
It is still only July — hardly late summer here — and already some of the blooms have had their swan songs. The blue, white and deep purple columbine have shed their fragile bonnets and now there’s just foliage swaying gently in the garden beds.
The double bearded irises in their frilly dresses have gone, too, leaving only sword-like leaves standing sentry.
The forsythia — which always produces the first dazzling burst of flowers in the spring — has long since shed its yellow petals and morphed into an innocuous-looking green shrub, giving no hint of its true flamboyant nature.
But there is still much to look forward to. The day lilies are just beginning to reveal themselves, luxuriously unfurling their orange petals from the tight confines of their buds.
There are still dozens of roses in waiting, and some of them will flower in bunches, like proffered bouquets.
The monkshood has yet to show its turbaned blue flowers, its charming appearance masking its murderous nature. It is a highly toxic plant that can be fatal if ingested by dogs and humans, which might explain its many aliases: aconite, wolf’s-bane, leopard’s bane, mousebane, women’s bane, devil’s helmet, blue rocket, queen of poisons.
It is said to repel werewolves, too, and it is surely working in our garden, with nary a one to be seen, even at the height of a full moon.
We nurture them all, spending hours bent to the task of getting rid of unwanted visitors: goutweed, broad-leaf plantain, dandelion, bindweed, creeping buttercup — plants that sound like key ingredients in some nasty Harry Potter potion.
Many of you reading this will have gardens of your own, cherished spaces where you can leave the stresses of the world indoors and get your hands dirty outside, plotting and planning and creating colourful spaces where only grass grew before, as birds flit and dive overhead.
There are no real rules in the garden. Mistakes are made and knowledge often comes through trial and error. Gardens are forgiving — a plant in poor soil might still thrive. An herb eaten by slugs might return triumphant in the spring.
In this space, there are no pressures, no deadlines, no hierarchies, no titles. You can work at your own rhythm, pausing to appreciate the moments when the traffic noise is eclipsed by birdsong.
Mother Nature is your only boss and she is benevolent enough to occasionally let you feel flush with the wonder of having helped make something beautiful.
There is something so satisfying about feeling dirt between your fingers, digging a hole so that a new plant can escape the bounds of its plastic pot and put down roots; deep connections that tie it to this place, just as you have.