My garden is a big deal to me. I never get as much time in it as i’d like. To me gardens aren’t chores, but a pleasure. When in cold winters i complain about the cold, lack or work, no money and hardship, people say i should move- they don’t know my garden, they don’t know my views through those big trees to the loch & hills beyond. A home stretches further than four walls, my home is my green outdoor space, and this is a great one. I love this garden.
If i don’t get time to do things then it gets on and grows without me, maximum growth minimum effort, permaculture. A garden is a source of food and herbs, although growing edibles does take more of that precious time, especially in a short growing season battling heavy rainfall, slugs and acidic soil that we have in the north. But to me, a garden isn’t just for food, certainly not for caring what the neighbours think or as some sort of pruned fashion facade bought at ikea. I haven’t really blogged about it before, because it is wholly me time, personal, like the quirky corners of my house, something i take for granted & don’t think to share, part of me and my world. Growing things, or encouraging things to grow and rearranging them is a wonderful artwork, a meditation, a communication.
Out there in the sun, the rain, the midges the wind listening to the omnipresent birdsong, their little wings fluttering close by. Ignoring the scruffy areas, defining edges, creating spaces, coaxing dry plants, shaping, trimming weaving others. Pulling out those buttercups, moving the tree saplings and foxgloves that thrive in the wrong places. The smells, the feel, the taste of all that greenery that explodes in front of us for the brief summer months. Harvesting sticks that block my view and weaving them into shapes and hanging baskets, mixing compost made from food scraps, pet litter and shredded junk mail, turning raised beds to find shiny children’s toys or buried dog toys hiding in the layered soil. Carrying rocks, bricks and logs from one end to the next until they settle into a place they like.
A garden is tranquility, is art, is design, is nurturing, is peace, is exercise, is communion, is a shrine, a dedication, a gift. Doves and rooks settle in my mature trees, branch limbs gently dance high above. The dog watches out for me while i work, the cat inspects my work, the birds come to find worms and tease the cat. Insects bite and thorns scratch, timeless as ancestors did, connecting through the earth.
Now that i have finished building my greenhouse of recycled old windows and hand cut timber posts, i have an extra dimension to play in, daily splashing rain water about, watching those plants grow day by day, stretching their salad leaves and promising flowers in the comfortable welcoming warmth. Bits of junk, driftwood, rust and found objects arrange themselves. Tangled thoughts and aching desk bound shoulders easing out into easier shapes, knots undone, shaken free, skin soaking up the daylight, lungs drinking in fresh air, muscles stretched and tightened. Hands and toes become at one with the earth, air, water and bonfires.
I love my garden.