If someone had told me six months ago that I’d be writing a blog post extolling the virtues of gardening I’d have thrown my head back and laughed heartily, glancing out at the gravelly little grey area beyond my kitchen window: a ‘garden’ in the loosest sense of
word.
“Why on Earth would I want to waste my precious spare time doing something as middle-aged and boring as gardening?!” I’d have guffawed. Indeed, weeding my flowerbeds would have been topping my list of bore-chores: right up there with dusting my naff nick-nacks and bleaching the loo. Back then, the only bed I paid any attention to on my day off was the one I’d been festering in after a boozy sesh the night before.
Thanks to the pandemic, 2020 has been a proper melon-twister of epic proportions, I think you’ll agree. The constant chopping and changing of the guidance hasn’t helped. Stay in; go out; get back in again. It’s been like doing the Hokey Cokey. Only under strict exam conditions. With no music. First masks were deemed pointless, now you face a fuck-off fine for daring to set foot on a (completely deserted because everyone’s WFH) train without one. I mean, where has that figure even come from? Like Carol Vorderman on Countdown, they just picked one number from the top, one from the middle and a couple from the bottom and jumbled them all up into a complex mathematical equation until they came up with a random number that looked like it’d required effort to work out (£6400, in case you were wondering).
For me, the one thing that’s made the events of this year ever-so-slightly easier to cope with has been the fact that everyone in the entire world is experiencing the same thing, at the same time (except, it seems, for the Chinese, who, having created this mess in the first place, are back to shoehorning themselves like sardines into packed pool parties, smiling as they swirl in a septic soup of bodily fluids).
Usually in life, everyone’s in varying states of happiness or despair at any one time, so it can feel unbalanced; lonely. For example, when I was trying to have a child of my own almost all of my friends seemed to be popping them out willy nilly; babies were pinging out all over the place, like microwave popcorn. I felt alone in my despair. But with a global pandemic we’re all in it together, riding out the storm; learning and adapting to the ‘new normal.’
The New Normal.
This expression makes me shudder - not least because it implies a kind of passive acceptance of the status quo that I’m just not ready for. I steadfastly refuse to believe that these crazy times of masks, quarantines and weekly-changing rules are here to stay. The backdrop to our lives is shifting so rapidly we’re losing the plot. It’s like a bad theatre production where someone keeps clumsily changing the set - we simply can’t keep up with the storyline. The government’s response to the virus has been pretty farcical, to say the least. They’ve taken the ‘fun’ out of our fundamental human rights...and just left us with the ‘mental.’
Wait! Don’t go! No more talking about Covid or politics, honest. You didn’t come here for that. The only reason I’m referencing the dreaded C-word in this blog is to highlight the POSITIVE changes it’s brought about in my life - despite the chaos going on around us. Which brings me back to gardening.
During lockdown, we looked inside ourselves, at what was really important in life: loved ones; health; loo roll... Then we looked around us and got busy within the confines of our own properties: painting; cooking; DIY; gardening. It turns out that when the going gets tough, the tough...bake banana bread with extra chocolate chips.
The sun was shining so it was inevitable that I would eventually turn my own attentions to my garden. What did take me by surprise, however, was how much I’d enjoy it.
My previous half-arsed attempts at maintaining a well-groomed garden had always been pretty shameful, truth be told. I was always far too busy working, partying, recovering from said party, or planning the next one to give it a second thought. Any fleeting interest in flowers wilted quicker than a vase of picked petunias when I realised the amount of effort required to keep them looking good.
“If it’s this hard to keep a houseplant alive it’s probably just as well I never had kids,” I’d reflect, as yet another orchid shed its final purple bloom, instantly morphing from exotic plant to shrivelled brown stick. Being impatient by nature - as well as with it - meant that rather than nursing it back to health over the coming months I’d simply toss the plant over my shoulder into the bin with a dismissive sigh. Laters! Maintaining a garden full of needy living creatures was just faaaar too much admin for me.
Last year I had tried. Sort of. I’d bought several packets of bulbs and half-heartedly planted them in pots around the perimeter of the ‘garden’. And that was about all I did for them, to be fair. Consequently, they’d barely broken through the earth all summer long. They hardly had the strength to stay alive, much less flourish (I’ve known that feeling before myself).
The blame lay squarely with me, I knew, since I’d given half of the exact batches of bulbs I’d bought to my parents. Lo and behold, they were rewarded with a garden full of bountiful blooms. The reason was simple: whereas they’d nurtured and watered their pots religiously, mine had been neglected from day one. If my chrysanths were children I’d have had social services banging at my door brandishing a court order.
This year, however, things were different. Suddenly, I had so much time on my hands that all the excuses I’d previously trotted out for not looking after my garden became invalid. I began to nurture those plants from last year which, despite the aforementioned neglect, started to push back through the soil with admirable determination. I recognised this steely behaviour in myself, the rallying against adversity, and was reminded of the quality I like most about the spirit of all living things: the will to survive, and thrive, in even the toughest conditions. I figured it would have been a sin to ignore these poor plants for a second year running - especially when I lay sunning myself for months on end during lockdown mere feet away from them, so close I could almost hear their desperate cries for help.
My partner and I (he was isolating with me at my house), having painted the entire house internally, then moved outside and began sprucing up the wooden patio set with gusto, painting it a sunny shade of salmon pink, before dousing the decking in blue (what can I say - there was an offer on a job lot of paint in Aldi).
Something shifted in my psyche. Instead of reaching for the remote at the sight of Alan Titchmarsh’s smarmy boatrace on my tellybox, I started actively tuning in, hungry for gardening inspo. Charlie Dimmock became my new girl crush.
Dave and I got busy: we put up wooden trellis, pulled up weeds, and adorned every inch of my little back yard with pretty new plants. The garden, delighted with this unexpected show of care and attention, rewarded us almost immediately by bursting into a dazzling display of brightly-coloured blooms.
It made me feel conflicting emotions: puffed-up pride at having finally produced the garden of a grown-up...tinged with shame that it took me so long...and embarrassment at how little effort was really required. All we really did was water it daily, chuck on a bit of fertiliser, squirt repellant at bugs and dead-headed occasionally...et voilà! A veritable treat for the senses ensued: sweet-smelling jasmine, tasty tomatoes, passiflora climbers interwoven around the trellis, their tiny fronds clinging on like a baby’s little fingers.
This got me to thinking: how much else had I missed out on over the years by focusing so much of my time and attention on being a sesh-head instead of other, more wholesome, pursuits? These thoughts sowed the first seeds of doubt about my pre-pandemic priorities...
As the days turned into weeks and then months on furlough, my garden slowly became my pride and joy: every lily, lavender sprig, begonia and pansy that flourished was duly photographed and fawned over - satisfying substitutes for the children I’d never had. My heart swelled with every new shoot.
Since the death of my last pet I’d refused to even consider the idea of becoming a parent to any more fur babies - let alone human ones - so painful was the loss. Yet nurturing my garden reminded me that having something to care for is good for the soul. My body may be barren, but it turns out that my back yard is as fruitful and fertile as can be.
People say:
“Don’t compare yourself and your achievements to others. You’re on a different journey so stay in your own lane.”
In some regards, I agree. The grass is often not as green on the other side of the fence as it may seem. But on the many long country walks that we took near my home this summer I began checking out the many gardens that we passed, picking up tips. I’d look out of my bedroom window at the neighbouring gardens, determined not to let the side down. I started asking the lady next door for pruning advice over the garden fence. Having barely seen, much less spoken to, one another in recent years (due to conflicting work schedules), we bonded over this new mutual interest. Keeping up with the Joneses may have been just the kick up the ass I needed to pimp up my pelargoniums and take stock of my stocks - as well as other aspects of my life that needed my attention.
Just as nurturing ourselves on the inside is vital for our wellbeing, it reminded me that nurturing something outside ourselves is just as important. A poorly-kept house or garden is often an outward manifestation of our inward struggles. Your home is your kingdom after all; an extension of your mind. By this logic, mine’s an eclectic mix of ageing 90s raver (complete with disco balls and framed flyers), boho charm, and the shabby chic of a determined divorcee who’s had to make do and mend.
As I focused on repairing things around my home and garden (thanks largely to my dedicated fella), I felt a seismic shift. Having got my personal space shipshape, my spirits soared. I then decided to turn my focus to repairing myself. I’d given up smoking years earlier, and was already on track with my fitness journey. I knew my drinking was next on the list. It’s now over 2 months since I drank alcohol and I’m radiating with good health and positivity - and my garden is looking pretty damn good too.
Lockdown gave me time to sit in the present and think about what I really want from my future - and it turned out that drinking alcohol, and the lifestyle that creates, is no longer part of it.
It reminded me of the quote:
“Energy flows where intention goes.”
It just depends on where you’re focusing your attentions. Everything I do, I do wholeheartedly; I’m an all-or-nothing kinda gal. What you focus on will grow (and that includes the negative bits, so beware!).
If you channel your energy into something positive, with measurable goals, you’ll be rewarded tenfold. I only have to look out of my kitchen window whilst I’m washing up to be reminded of that. Now my little garden is blooming for the first time in - well, forever. Its fortunes have been totally transformed...and it’s like a visual metaphor for what’s happening inside my mind 😌.
Day 64 alcohol free.
Sam x
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