I’ve become a gardener. Not just in the literal sense of having a garden; but more in the way that my garden has become a filter through which I see the world.
I grow flowers for the bees, set beer traps for snails, chase wasps from the swan plants and am the Big T’s eager accomplice in Monarch butterfly husbandry.
When I grow hungry, the contents of the vege patch are as important as the contents of my fridge.
And when the annoying TV weatherman casts impending rain as a villain swooping in to spoil the party, I want to shout “sod off! Think of the plants; think of the gardens.”
The thing about gardening is that you become part of a cycle; birth, life, death, decay, re-birth. Compost as metaphor!
I have become connected. Though my little patch of cultivated dirt, I feel a sense of belonging to the Earth that is not only new, but surprising in its intensity.
I found this poem yesterday and realised that where once, if asked about my attitude to life and death, I’d have quoted Dylan Thomas’s Do not go gentle into that good night.
End is in beginning;
And in beginning end:
Death is not loss, nor life winning;
But each and to each is friend.
The hands which give are taking;
And the hands which take bestow:
Always the bough is breaking
Heavy with fruit or snow.