Growth Ungrounded
Gardening must be one of the most grounding practices we can use for our mental health. I can wholeheartedly attest to its many benefits. I love gardening. Though I have to admit that my garden is looking a bit neglected. I wonder what a neglected garden says about our mental health and well-being. I suppose it depends on the garden in question and the gardener. I've neglected my garden because I feel ungrounded, which is almost oxymoronic, gardening would surely make you feel more grounded I hear you say. True, sort of.
Virginia Wolf said “a woman needs 500 a year and a room of her own''. I’m not sure what that money is nowadays but I would argue a woman needs a room of one's own, in a house of one’s own, with a garden of one's own and oodles of dosh. Seriously though, a sense of rootedness is deeply connected to our notions of place, identity and home. Those things in alignment mean that you can settle, body and mind. Then you can plant your garden.
A sense of rootedness is deeply connected to our notions of place, identity and home. Those things in alignment mean that you can settle, body and mind. Then you can plant your garden.
Mum’s Green Thumb including Bottle Brush (Callistemon) native to Australia - Childhood Garden Circa 2017
There is an intention of longevity in starting a garden. When you plant seeds, you do so in anticipation of watching a garden come to life. My garden has gone to pot. Pun intended. All the plants are in pots because the garden is not a garden per se. It is a deck with a mix of native Australian plants, succulents, herbs, a few bonsais and a path with barren veggie planters with last year's tomato seeds popping up everywhere. When and if the tomatoes fruit and ripen, they will likely go to the cheeky King Parrots again like last year and that's fine. The potted plants have moved along with their indoor counterparts too many times in recent years. The garden, as it is, is overlooked by neighbours on all sides. Occasionally, I attempt a bit of pruning or weeding (quietly, earphones in, a podcast on) with my dainty secateurs. There must be an invisible trip line that I appear to set off every time I step into the garden. Because without fail, like a 'call to arms', it triggers some sort of response among the neighbours. They emerge from their slumber with lawnmowers, hedge trimmers or worse, leaf blowers. It is a perverse game of suburban one-upmanship. Leaf blowers…don’t get me started.
I inherited my love of gardening from my Mum. Some of my earliest memories are of time spent in my parent's garden when I was little. I loved the greenhouse, helping Mum with digging and potting. I'm not sure I was very helpful but it was great fun having that tactile experience. It still is, but you can’t replicate the joy of connecting to nature through the senses in childhood. Exploring the garden as a child was a full sensory exploration devoid of the mental meanderings of the adult brain. Hands immersed in soil, bare feet in the grass, navigating hideyholes under shrubs, observing insects, smelling flowers, building forts, climbing trees, tasting freshly grown tomatoes. The most enriching experience aside from dominion over the garden hose was growing food. The sheer delight of picking and tasting beans and tomatoes straight from the plant never gets old. I remember pulling radishes from the ground with my Dad, dusting off the soil and the surprise of the spice and crunch of the pink flesh which resembled something much sweeter.
Little Garden helper, Grandmother & the Greenhouse
As an adult, the delight of growing food and other plants remains. The responsibilities of life get in the way of actually doing the growing however, never mind the picking and eating. For me, living in a place where I don't intend to stay also means it's difficult to put down roots, figuratively and literally. We moved from the big smoke to somewhere more regional and less urban, pre-pandemic. We had high hopes of finding somewhere with a big garden to live the ‘good life’. We planned to test the area and see if we would put down permanent roots, but the pandemic did away with planning and permanency. So, we’re here now, loving the land, the views, the walks, and the closeness to nature. The community is welcoming but our time here feels somehow feels limited.
We had high hopes of finding somewhere with a big garden to live the ‘good life’. We planned to test the area and see if we would put down permanent roots but the pandemic did away with planning and permanency.
As I type, I’m looking at my seed basket, filled with seeds, some saved, some unopened (aspirational seeds) wondering what, if anything I can plant. I can't bring myself to commit to short-term crops or flowers to brighten the deck, despite knowing that I could transport everything if we decided to move. I just know I want to start fresh. Maybe I can get the countertop seed sprouter down from the dusty shelf and sprout a few broccoli seeds or a bit of alfalfa. “A bit of alfalfa”, how uninspiring!
The garden outside the confines of the house, the bush, feels much more enticing, as do the beaches, rocks and coastal stretches. Gardening provides a sort of safe container for experimentation. Plant seeds, water, feed, nurture and watch things grow. We like moulding and shaping and designing gardens to our liking. Sure, things go wrong, and results might not be quite what you expected. Gardening is a formula that you can adjust and rehearse until you get the perfect Peony or heirloom cucumber.
Millennial Succulents and Aspirational Seed Basket
Wild places have no confines, no clear structure and no resolution. Ecologically, there are identifiable themes and patterns, but they don’t behave like an isolated rose or hydrangea standing in a circular bed, surrounded by a fence. Wild ecosystems are just that, wild and un-contained, free to move beyond fence lines, twine and stakes. Wild places are an escape from suburban boundaries. I welcome any escape from the Agapanthus alone, which feels like a purple prison in my temporary space. Everywhere I look, another one is about to explode in a toxic display of purple pomposity. Exotic weeds aside, I really do love gardening, and yet my affinity with the wild, less cultivated space feels more nourishing and grounding than the garden. I want to grow my seeds, the blue pansies and black hollyhocks, chillies and basil, but not here, not now, and not while the leaf blower ruins the serenity.
My aspirational seeds will sit in the seed basket for another season. The perfect patch will come along and reawaken the dormant gardener in me.
Perhaps our gardens do represent the stage we are at in life. Gardens flourish when you tend to them and nurture them. "A well-gardened mind", as the title of Sue Stuart-Smith's brilliant book so well describes. For gardeners, the garden is a sanctuary, it's not simply a hobby but a place to cultivate mental and physical well-being. My aspirational seeds will sit in the seed basket for another season. The perfect patch will come along and reawaken the dormant gardener in me. For now, I'll forgo the buzz of machines and the strangle of invasive weeds. I'll down the secateurs and take my leave into the wild, there is growth outside the garden.
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Natures notes is proudly written on and inspired by Dharawal Country. I recognise the Dharawal & Wodi Wodi custodians and ancestors who have an enduring connection to land, water and skies. I give thanks for reciprocity and acknowledge that this Always Was and Always Will be Aboriginal Land.