Growing green fingers

If someone had told me a year ago that I would actually care about what happens in my garden, let alone be actively planning how it can develop, I’d have laughed in their face and probably told them where to get off! But now it gives me increasing pleasure and I find myself chuckling away as I walk the dogs whilst gawping into people’s gardens, admiring what they have, sometimes even being able to recognise a plant that I have…or that I wish I could have. Who’d have thought?!

I think I will credit this new-found love to my lovely Aldi check-out lady, who was complaining last summer about how she needed to sort out the weeds in her garden (the rude part of my brain can easily find some sort of innuendo in that phrase). I immediately thought that she was a bit mad, but that then triggered something in my brain which made me actually go and look at my garden and realise what a mess it was.

Fast forward to today. Since July last year, I have: cleared the bottom fifth of my garden which was completely covered in things (aka plants, shrubs, herbs, roses); had a falling-down shed removed; painted and put up a new shed; painted many, many fence panels; planted many, many plants; mowed the lawn many, many times. And, surprisingly, nothing has died. Yet.

Maybe this is what middle age is all about. Or maybe it’s one of the ways that I’m finding to help calm my brain when it’s going into stress/anxiety/meltdown phases. And on top of all of this, as well as being proud of myself, my children are proud of me and of the garden. It’s got to mean something when my 15-year old son tells me it looks amazing!

Be still my bleeding hearts….

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