My Life Is Like A Garden
“Mary, Mary, how does your garden grow?”
Crisp sandy patches dotted amongst what were once lush, now dry and dehydrated leaves. Tiny nibbles line the edges of the maroon baby cabbage leaves, while clusters of ‘unnecessarily aggressive with their biting’ red ants scurry between them. Oh, wait, I’m sure I planted some broccoli here. As you can already tell, my garden has taken quite the hit this year. As I stand back and observe all the chaos, the weeds that I'm convinced grew a foot overnight, the struggling vegetables, the forgotten seedlings, I can’t help but laugh (and maybe cry) at how my life, this year, is exactly like my garden.
Nibbled baby broccoli leaf
It’s peculiar feeling when you come across something that becomes a mirror of your own life. You weren't looking for it, you certainly weren't expecting it, but there it is. And somehow, you can't help but stay a while. Sometimes, the mirror is found in a book, a painting or shared stories. For me presently, it’s my vegetable patch.
The neglected patches, the extreme weather changes, the things that have flourished despite the odds, and the things that haven't survived at all. My garden isn't just a collection of plants this season; it's become a quiet reminder that life, much like gardening, rarely goes according to plan.
Starting the year strong, ready and raring to go, the preparations in winter paid off. Greenhouse and vegetable patch in order, cleared of weeds, beds drawn and equipment organised, the plans and schedule finalised.
Three, two, one... go.
My seedlings started off well. In the warm conditions inside they flourished, maybe a little too quickly. It’s ok, we can start again. Slow and steady. For a few months, more and more seeds grew. Multiple trays and pots of new life filled the greenhouse, each one bringing excitement, hopes and dreams of what my garden would look like by summer. The cold lingered longer than expected, slowing growth and testing patience, yet those seedlings grew into bigger plants and were ready to be planted into the ground.
Seedlings starting to emerge as the weather begins to warm
But the red ants had returned in larger numbers than before, and I am certain the whole of the UK’s red ant population is in my garden. Each dig, another ant nursery appeared and hundreds of tiny red bodies aggressively spilled out from the soil. (Think of in the first Lord of the Rings movie, when all the orcs start crawling out in the mines of Moria). No matter what I did, like some of life’s problems, they only increased. It was impossible to spend that dedicated time taking care of the green house without them crawling all over, into my wellies, determined to bite every bit of skin. And soon my place of peace became a place of battle and stress and somewhere I avoided. The pests and the weeds took over.
Spot the red ants, check your legs too!
Then, as in life, the conditions changed, again. The heatwaves came. Days so intense that plants that had been carefully nurtured began to struggle. Leaves faded into chlorotic shades of sickly yellow before wilting beneath the relentless sun. There are some things you simply cannot control. You can prepare the soil, choose the right seeds, water carefully and give things the best chance you can. But sometimes the weather decides otherwise.
There is a particular sadness in watching something you have carefully nurtured struggle, knowing that love, effort and planning are sometimes not enough to change the outcome. There is the quiet growth of new life and quiet losses that often go unnoticed. A garden holds both at the same time. Something can be pushing through the soil while somewhere else something has quietly stopped growing. Not every loss in a garden is dramatic. Sometimes it is a plant destroyed overnight, something obvious and impossible to miss. Other losses are quieter. A seed that never germinates. A tiny seedling that slowly stops growing. Something you had already started imagining a future for, quietly gone.
Potato plant hit by the extreme heat wave
Simple jobs became harder. The hose was never where I’d left it, tools disappeared when my back was turned. Jobs that should have taken minutes became a search for the things needed to complete them. The garden was asking for care, but my capacity to do so was slipping away, along with my time. Time that was needed elsewhere, another job, another favour, another thing that couldn't possibly wait. The garden was still important, it just wasn’t seen as urgent or as much of a priority. And urgent things have a habit of taking over.
For a while, the garden survived on whatever attention remained. But gardens, like people, cannot keep giving from empty soil. Soon the weeds took over completely and crept into every empty corner suffocating my plants. It seemed as if my garden had disappeared completely. The garden looked as stressed and forgotten as I felt.
Overgrown with weeds and red ant nurseries nestled amongst them
Plants don't always immediately show you they are struggling. They quietly draw from what they have already been given. They borrow from their reserves, stretching what is left a little further until one day a little water is no longer enough to revive them. People are not so different. The garden never really asked for much. Just a little time and attention.
The garden is one of my favourite places. Peaceful, full of life and hope. It was where a cup of tea would inevitably go cold because I became distracted by another tray needing attention or lost in thought, where tiny seeds turned into life. It wasn't just where I grew food and plants, it was where I grew myself. Slowly, it became another place I passed by.
I had given up.
It felt like the journey for the year was already over. But amongst this sadness, there was laughter. Small but joyful, and as loud as a small thing could laugh that overpowered the voices of despair.
Purple French beans despite stunted growth
My children had spotted things I had not. Among all the chaos, the flowers had persisted and bloomed through the tangled mess of weeds. My stunted plants had still produced a few, plum coloured beans. Where I saw failure, my children found success and were overjoyed with having something to pick. No matter how small the potato, they were overjoyed to dig through with bare hands to pull them out.
The raspberry bushes were now bursting with crimson and gold jewels, and the promise of juicy apples hung heavy from the branches. They weren't focused on what had been lost or what I had imagined the garden would become. They were simply enjoying what was in front of them.
Raspberry bushes bursting with crimson and golden berries
And that was a big life lesson for me.
Life doesn't always go the way we planned. We don't always reach the goal we set out for, at the time we expected. Sometimes the path changes. Sometimes the harvest is smaller than we imagined. Their joy felt like a rest, a reminder that just because we stumble, it doesn't mean the journey is over. Sometimes it simply means we take a different route, even if it’s a little longer than we hoped. There is still time left in the year, there’s still tomorrow and the day after. There are still things that can be done to prepare for the colder months. And even if I need to step away from the garden a while longer, I can still enjoy the hedgerows until I'm ready to return.
It’s easy to start comparing yours to other gardens, but each has had its own unseen story and challenges, just as mine does. The one little flower that pushed through, contains far more strength than most would imagine. That quiet strength, unnoticed at first, but powerful to push through the chaos. It’s growth, it’s movement and in that, lies hope. It’s a delicate balance of the past, present and future. Remaining in the past can bring despair, but a gentle reflective look is also a reminder that it bloomed before and it can again. Thinking of the future brings motivation, but unbalanced, can bring forgetfulness about present day groundwork while stuck in a dream. I think of the lessons learned from the past few months; sometimes acceptance and sometimes, there is a necessary need to adjust your boundaries to strengthen against the pests that damage your garden. For now though, I’m going to focus on the present, the warm scarlet flower that bloomed through, the laughter of my children popping the new bean pods, and the gentle breeze I’ve so long yearned for.
As long as there is movement, there is hope
“So Mary, Mary, how does your garden grow?”
Honestly, I don’t know, but it grows. Of that I am certain.
With warmth,
Halimah