Publications
RHS Journals
The Garden
January 2001
Viewpoint - The Good Life
Page 2
Considering her life back home, prayer, I felt, was a reasonable consolation, but weeding for pleasure seemed an alien concept. Weeds always provoked the same response from me as pigeons, slugs and juvenile scrumpers - a kind of inarticulate parade-ground fury at their daring threats to undo all my toil. They represented a hint of the chaos which was seething restlessly all round my carefully organised plot, challenging the iron fist with which I ruled my plants.
On reflection, this was quite odd, because in other aspects of life I am a natural anarchist and 'terminally undisciplined', as Peter Mandelson is reported to have described Mo Mowlem. Perhaps gardening represented some hidden need for empowerment, or the suppressed violence that is said to lurk within the most nonchalant of us. Even now, I look ruefully over other people's hedges at immaculate lawn edges or straight rows of tagetes, and recall a stern delight in knocking the garden into shape. Clearly, the many and various satisfactions gardening provides could be fertile research for some doctoral psychology student.
Doctor Szuszan went on to explain that she had left some weeds because they were so pretty. 'In Rakosi Street vee have no veeds. They are not allowed, you understand.' This was 25 years ago, when certain European countries were repressed under the same harsh rule I imposed on the garden.
At the time, her attitude seemed frankly 'wet' to this horny-handed aspiring homesteader. But she had insinuated whispers of doubt into my mind, and I found myself questioning the dogmatic stance of my hitherto unchallenged handbooks.
Perhaps all gardeners should serve an apprenticeship, during which they discover answers to the question 'How?'. Once familiar with the essential techniques, we can afford the luxury of asking 'Why?'. Why, for example, were my daughter's onions fatter and harder than mine? I did everything by the book, whereas she planted the sets, watered them once and then forgot all about them until we scythed down the weeds to reveal bulbs that deserved entering in the village show.
In short, I rebelled against my own tyranny. As happened later in Dr Szuszan's own homeland, every cautious gesture of relaxation seemed to release startling suppressed energy. Here and there I warily allowed weeds to grow, and before long we had goldfinches and long-tailed tits nesting in the garden. My arsenal of pesticides and herbicides gathered cobwebs, and hedgehogs, lacewings and ladybirds promptly returned. I even started growing flowers, and made benches for us to enjoy the good life under the trees with mugs of tea, idling away sunny hours watching the liberated garden stretch and thrive.
Gardening for me is no longer another list of jobs, like outdoor housework. The puritanical satisfaction I once gained from rigorously disciplining plants has been replaced with something akin to a parent's joy at seeing a child grow up and away. The real skill seems to be in knowing when moderation or gentle guidance is needed, but mainly when not to interfere.
Are we perhaps too uptight about appearances as we strive to keep our gardens tidy and presentable? If we just lighten up and take time to watch bindweed buds unfurl, marvel at a millipede that knows which leg to move first, or even appreciate the comedy of a blackbird furiously scattering our immaculate mulch, we might discover that the garden good life happens despite all our worthy efforts.
What is it that you love about gardening? Have you employed a different practice that has changed your perception? Your views on these subjects are welcome. e-mail: thegarden@rhs.org.uk |