Binge-gardening my way to a feeling of control
Three days of binge-gardening left me wondering: is my relationship with nature weird? No paid work, perfect Labour Day weekend weather, and a bed-bound child recovering from surgery left me no option but to busy myself in whichever area of my garden was in the sun. While I pulled weeds and reimagined spaces, I felt strong, creative and, mostly, undistracted.
By my second day of yakka, something odd was starting to happen. I lay in bed wondering, to the disadvantage of any other thoughts, how the cacti were coping with a different amount of light and whether those orange thingies could be transplanted elsewhere. I sipped my early morning cuppa in my jammies on the back porch, inspecting the clothesline and how its interaction with the bush behind it might be improved. I ignored lunch to win my war on weeds in the swampiest corner of my little patch of earth.
I became, in short, rather obsessed.
That a sensible woman such as myself could shrug off other responsibilities like spending time with the child-patient or preparing something wholesome for everyone to eat was almost shameful, and extremely boring. But that’s what I did, hour after delicious hour.
I should add that I am not a very good keeper of gardens. Not having grown up with the flora of Aotearoa, I know little about the names or behaviours of most native plants. My garden is based on the simple presumption that if I plant it, it might grow. I love the naughty, soured fragrance of onion weed. Recently, I transplanted into pots some random golden wildflowers that were scattered about, only to learn from a proper-gardener friend that these are noxious weeds. Oh, and I love lupins, the curse of the Mackenzie Country.
These deficiencies seemed not to have affected my enjoyment of the hobby. By my third day of obsessive cultivating, more meals skipped and children ignored, I started to ask myself why. I garden, and have frequently gardened, but not like this before. I went so far as to ask my partner if my behaviour seemed slightly dysfunctional. He bowed his head slightly then responded to what he thought was an urgent call from the patient’s bedroom.
In between figuring out how much weight I could single-handedly lift (more than I thought) and why there is so much of the pernicious weed oxalis in my vegetable patch (wind), I settled upon two reasons for why this work had become incredibly satisfying to me.
Nature, with its vigour of seeding itself and mysterious provenances and ability to change its mind, is of course the original and omnipotent force in my garden. Our species, however, has a primal desire to impose its own power over nature, which is why we forced city-states, sewage systems and the Auckland Sky Tower upon it. Urging petunias into a new pot and following long lines of ivy to the fence line satisfies some deeper sense that I can have an immediate, albeit short-lived, influence over the mightiest force in the universe.
Contrast that with my previous week of work and family life, which offered up several matters entirely outside of my control. Decisions were made, timeframes set, and health matters settled with little input from myself. The relentless engines of modern life churned quickly outside while I worked alone in a windowless sound-editing suite.
Urging petunias into a new pot ... satisfies some deeper sense that I can have an immediate, albeit shortlived, influence over the mightiest force in the universe.
In my garden, I could directly affect a physical space with fewer unknowns and an addictive amount of freedom. It felt good to impose order on the chaos of the bush. I was intervening, with swift results. Stephen Anderton of The Independent puts it like this: ‘‘It makes no difference whether you garden formally or have the most romantic of wild gardens, the gardener is still there to be the interventionist; only the rigour and frequency of the attention varies.’’
The continuous denaturing of our world is another reason why I found myself happily trapped in the bubble of my yard. Squareness, cleanliness, and predictability of space are the elements of the human-made realm. The twist of plants toward the sun, the quirky ramble of roots, and the surprise of life surviving on the dark side of the paving stone provide needed juxtapositions to our more uniform lives.
If guilt set in about all the things I should’ve been doing instead of marathon-gardening, I reminded myself of the proven mental and physical health benefits of interacting with nature. One study found that people who care for plants are more likely to help other people, form shared bonds, have increased compassion and ‘‘more advanced social relationships’’.
OK, I can go with that. Just a few more sleeps until next weekend when I can improve my emotional intelligence by shifting those orange thingies nearer to the clothesline.