Recently I have had my less enlightening moments in the garden. I get overwhelmed and curse under my breath, the garden and Christmas. Yes, on my darkest days I do admit that I hate them both equally. Yet, on closer inspection, what I hate are others’ expectations around these events, seasons, occasions. I love my version of Christmas, and I love my version of the garden: a place with mayhem, fauna chewing at new growth, flora choking out other growth, and the fact that I need a pick axe to plant every new and generous donation from fellow gardeners.

Up where we are, yes up, the soil doesn’t exist, it has all been washed down to where you are. We have rock and clay. Our perennials have persevered admirably, much better than my patience

To be fair the garden and my little tinkling pond has provided much pleasure and mindful relaxation. But I am coming to see that I do not work on the garden, it works on me, trying desperately to explain what goes where and what will never thrive. My problem is that I still need to slow down, even more, and listen, while it speaks. Some things thrive and others wither.


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