MY GARDEN FORGIVES ME
In the lead-up to Christmas one year, I found myself in a garden funk.
I felt as though I had lost my grip on its activity and was feeling heavy under the looming deadlines of life and work that always seemed to present themselves at this time of year.
The reality of my situation rushed in as I slogged my way across my water-logged back garden following a week of very heavy rain. Thanks to the disappointing absence of a stormwater connection off our picture framing studio, the lawn was totally submerged under a ‘romantic’, ankle-deep lake. Romantic was the only word I could come up with as I waded around lifting yet-to-be-planted pottles of seedlings off the ground as they threatened to float away in my bow wave. My thoughts were far from romantic, however, as I sighed deeply in guilt that these plants weren’t yet in the ground. They were meant to be in weeks if not months ago. As were the strangled ‘Limelight’ hydrangeas that I bought in the autumn, forlornly looking back at me, still waiting for me to pull out the mountains of bear’s breeches that stood between them and the garden.
Still. Not. Done.
Words and photography by Julia Atkinson-Dunn
‘Lake Linwood’
With housesitters due to arrive later that week, my guilt had led to fear. Fear that my visitors were readers of my gardening column, or followed me on social media and were about to have their summery visions of a happy, healthy garden unmet. To be fair, a good fifty per cent of the garden would have satisfied them, with my stacked vegetable garden turned perennial palace really coming into its own and the tall tops of my thalictrum budding into magnificence down the back. I even felt a little jealous that they would get to see my first echinacea pop into bloom.
My vege garden was more of a perennial campsite than productive!
It’s the other half that was as grim as a vacant lot, and unfortunately, this was the area immediately viewed out the living room window. It had been left to do anything it pleased behind the new arching lines of bricks indicating where the planned larger beds would be formed.
The hiccup had been in the waiting for trees to be removed and this had been delayed until January. I couldn’t decide if it was worth the torture of my pressurised timeframe to tidy it up before then specifically to avoid outing myself to my guests as nothing more than a weed farmer! Even the deadheading of the iceberg roses at the front of the house had been left too late for my visitors to enjoy some bright new growth.
The tiny strip of planting along the driveway fence had some underfed sweet peas trying to do their thing, along with falling-down scabiosa and two ragged-looking self-seeded hollyhocks. I was furious I didn’t top it up with fresh soil and replant with finesse as I’d imagined I would last autumn. At this point, it appeared as a ‘half garden’, with sporadic planting intermingled with an infestation of fennel seedlings.
Self seeded fence sweet peas.
I truly, deeply love my garden and everything it offers me. Even the guilt, in a way, when I simply cannot keep up with the constant trudge forward of the seasons. Because I know that, despite my delays in doing its work, my garden will forgive me. It forgave me when I didn’t plant my spring bulbs until mid-winter.
It also forgave me when I hurriedly and roughly dug up huge clumps of dahlias, moving them without dividing them into soggy, cold soil in wintery August. Everything still flowered and survived. It forgives me when I forget to water the pots, sending wilty warning shots just in time for me to revive them, or when I procrastinate on feeding the eternally fruiting, potted limequat that waves its yellowing leaves in protest.
“My garden offers me the opportunity to care for something living outside of myself, my husband and my cat. Unlike the mammals that would decline rapidly if I chose to turn my back on them and their survival needs, the garden always seems to say ‘Don’t worry, it’s never too late for me’.”
T attacking the terrible fence half garden.
My garden offers me the opportunity to care for something living outside of myself, my husband and my cat. Unlike the mammals that would decline rapidly if I chose to turn my back on them and their survival needs, the garden always seems to say ‘Don’t worry, it’s never too late for me’.
I really do marvel at the fact that with some concentrated time and effort, I know that I can rescue all the areas and specimens that have been neglected over the year. That the vision I have for my special little haven can still be achieved, despite my wobbly efforts and juggling of time.
On advice from a book I read, I have made a habit of wandering out and lying spread-eagled on the lawn just before bedtime. Digging my fingertips into the ground and feeling the weight of my body on the earth, I listen to the rustle of leaves set against distant police sirens and my local boy racers, relaxing in intense gratitude that I have this place of refuge amid the chaos. Even when the black nightshade glares at me from its spreading patch, my garden remains on my team, no matter the attention (or lack of) that I give it.
How incredibly lucky I am.
This is an expanded version of the article featured in my Stuff ‘Homed’ gardening column for beginners , The Press, Dominion Post and other regional papers on December 23rd 2021
All words and images are my own, taken in my home and garden in Christchurch, New Zealand unless otherwise captioned.