We’d been living in this house for two years when I said, “Why is there no path leading up to the front door? I would really like to have a path here. I’m surprised nobody ever put one in.” Because I’m the only smart person who has ever lived in this 100+ year old house.
Some exploratory excavation uncovered already existing steps buried under years of soil, pachysandra, and overgrown hostas. I think I am finally developing an appreciation for these slug sanctuaries.
A friend of mine has a beautiful garden. It’s small but she has created a feeling of sheltered space – sanctuary, but not for snails. You walk into it, wander around in it, it leads you places. Annuals, perennials, fruit, and vegetables, large, tiny, gorgeous.
She never just steps outside for a breath of air. She steps outside and sees the beginnings of a weed and she stoops and bends and digs it out and gets rid of it quick. She’s always deadheading, tidying, weeding, making mental notes for later. She has an eye for detail AND she sees the big picture. She sees the figure waiting to be freed from the marble.
All I see is jumble. I never know where to begin, though I’ve been around long enough to know there is no end. Like housework.
I look at those lilac bushes in such desperate need of pruning that they barely produce flowers anymore, choked by wild grape vine and roses, and I can’t figure out where to start. It takes snip after laborious snip – hours of work before I can make heads or tails of what I am looking at. And now it’s tidy, but it will be years before it is pretty. We’ll see what mulch can do.
We’re slowly converting our vegetable garden to raised beds because of my inability to see past the jumble without some artificially imposed order. I’m not even sure we should call it a vegetable garden this year because all we’ve put in so far is strawberries and rhubarb. Basically we planted pie.
It’s OK, I like pie.