Dr Mark Dooley MORAL MATTERS We must find our way back to the garden

Sdetached from nature. There are many reasons why our society is suffering severe moral breakdown. However, I am convinced that top of the list is our flight from the soil. For when we no longer have gardens to tend, we become alienated, not only from our natural condition, but from that rich sense of community which gardening fosters.

When I resolve to tackle the garden, I do so with the aim of fitting in to my general surrounds. I do so because a beautiful garden signifies its owner’s intention to contribute to the aesthetic order of the street.

It indicates my longing to harmonise with my neighbours.

Consider how a garden can bind strangers in a web of mutual dependence. Think of the leisurely conversations across hedge or fence, the various tips exchanged and the invitations offered.

Think of how, through pruning and planting, we come to appreciate how symbiotically attached we are to those on the other side.

Even more than our homes, our gardens convey a sense of who we are, and what we value.

While we may never see inside a person’s house, the garden serves as a mirror to the soul. It offers to all who pass a glimpse into the lives of those who dwell therein.

AINCE I got married, much of my life has been devoted to gardening. When we bought our first house, neither Mrs Dooley nor I possessed what they call ‘green fingers’. Despite the fact that we spent a good deal of our youth in the countryside, we had finely manicured city hands.

All that changed when, one morning, I pondered the barren patch beyond our back window. Compared with neighbouring gardens, ours was nothing more than a weed-ridden strip of scrub. In that moment, I resolved to transform our unloved plot into a little portion of Eden.

With the help of a friend, whose botanic expertise far exceeded our own, we churned up the garden’s circumference.

We planted trees, hedges, rosebushes and small shrubs. We painted the walls, before adorning them with a carefully crafted wooden trellis.

Before long, we had a garden ablaze with colour and pulsing to the sound of robins, wood pigeons and blue tits. On a hot day, the scent of honeysuckle and red roses would waft through the house, inviting us to abandon the cares of the world to an hour in the sun. Indeed, before long, it became customary for the Dooleys T another level, our garto savour a glass while contemplating dens remind us that we the hum of eventide. are, essentially, creatures

For a decade, that tiny garden of the earth. My boys became a true labour of love. never thrive more than

When our first child was born, I when elbow- deep i n muck. By imagined the fun we would have becoming one with their natural mowing the lawn, pulling weeds and environment, they surmount the battling the plague of pests who, each estrangement that so much of modsummer, declare an unremitting war ern life engenders. on the Irish garden. Why, for example, would any parent

By the time he turned two, my little park their child in front of a screen, son was following his father up and when his imagination could be set on down the lawn while pushing his little fire by an hour in the clay? What plastic mower. makes parents think that playing

Shortly after, we moved house, and with a Wii will enhance moral and found ourselves in a garden that had emotional intelligence, more than been lovingly nurtured. It was old tending to a vegetable or flower and mature, with trees and shrubs patch? Why, in sum, would they that had firmly staked themselves to deprive their children of the very the soil. This time, we had little to do thing that has the potential to form a except maintain what we now know well-rounded personality? as our peaceful idyll. The answer is clear: in a world where

I tell this story because the gardentime and effort are at a premium, garing season is once more upon us. dening is considered by many an This means that, between now and unnecessary burden. Still, I don’t October, life in the Dooley household consider it an exaggeration to say will move to a different rhythm. Each that the price we are paying for its day, instead of having to endure decline is social disintegration. domestic confinement, our children That is why I shall now leave the will accompany their parents as they solitude of my study and head out migrate outdoors. to trim the l awn. For I know it

For children, the months spent in will only be a matter of moments the garden are the most productive before I am joined by a little troop of the year. At a basic level, they fill of helpers, complete with plastic their little lungs with fresh air, while rakes and spades. getting acquainted with all classes of The grass, in other words, is what creepy-crawlies. binds my children together, which is

They also learn why, if human life is why nothing pleases me more than to flourish, it must never become too when it needs to be cut.

mark.dooley@dailymail.ie