Hours and HOURS were spent weeding. It was bloody hot as I meticulously pulled weed after weed, being careful to "get those roots". When I wasn't weeding, I was somewhere else in the garden deadheading, digging or turning the compost. I honestly don't remember finding anything in the garden to be a chore. I learned what a delphinium was, and that it was happiest with a little dappled shade in the afternoon. I knew that marigolds planted at the base of a tomato plant was a natural way to keep the bugs away, while basil planted nearby gave those tomatoes an unmistakable sweet flavour like no other. Before I left home, I knew how and when to prune an apple tree and learned how NOT to prune a hydrangea (I still feel a pang of guilt for the lack of those gorgeous periwinkle paper-thin blooms one particular Spring.)
But it is the intrinsic value of time spent in the garden that I most cherished. Life at home for me, like most of us, was not always perfect. When things were not so idyllic inside at home, I was drawn outside. Sometimes the simple task of weeding, deadheading, staking, or hoeing is all it would take to make the world alright again. To take a step back and see things beautiful and orderly was pure therapy for me. To contemplate the beauty of a black Hollyhock, knowing that it was the product of seeds passed from a young man from Holland to his sweetheart - my Grandmother - 70 years later, to my Mum and next to me; or to breathe in the intoxicating scent of a heritage tea rose, was all pure magic to me.
Today I find my garden to be a veritable temple. This where I seek solace and strength when need be. Last spring, I wandered around my dewey garden feeling numb. My very dear friends had just lost their sweet little one, that was only days old. It is impossible to make sense of such a loss. But, perhaps as a sign from the spirit of that very young soul, I found this perfect peony. It's scent was perhaps the redolent I had ever smelled. It was the first peony bloom of the season in my garden. I will always now think of the brief blessing of that brave little soul whenever I enjoy the pure grace a peony's beauty.
