It’s funny that as a grown up who has had a large part in both creating and subsequently sustaining life, actual perfect human life with teeny fingers and toes and dimples and questions – oh the endless questions – I get so excited when I manage to grow a plant.
Never before have I managed to keep a house plant alive for longer than a week and never before have I had quite such an empty garden to fill.
My days are filled with trying to gasp control in places where it cannot happen and the garden and its soil are the only place where I embrace spontinaety, planting seeds and tiny shoots of plants and entrusting their lives and their leaves to the moist soil and Mother Nature because that’s just how it is. If they grow, they grow, if they don’t I’ll try again with something else and repeat until colour and petals and leaves and roots abound.
I don’t know what to plant where or when or how and at the point of selecting things for the back garden, exasperated and overwhelmed and impatient I chose from two criteria; things that I like and things that were cheap because something (anything) needed to be done.
I was not expecting to see much this summer(?) and although sunlight is yet to break through the grey clouds that seem to have cloaked East Anglia since October 2012, the recent warmth has lead to a sudden beautiful explosion of freesias and geraniums and a million other things that I can’t name.
Although every day within these four walls I am surrounded by the fruits of the hard work that took rooms from shambles to home, somehow the garden feels more of a triumph
I guess because it’s organic and it’s life and it’s ever changing and there really is something therapeutic about digging until soil is lodged under your nails and your back aches and your muscles protest but tiny green shoots poke triumphantly through the earth.