There Are Always Weeds Growing

 The well-tended garden rewards and reflects the work that goes into it. And while the fruit you harvest will nourish you, and the spring blossom will surround you with its fragrance, the weeds, if neglected, will ensnare you. They will grow up around you, blocking out the sun, their thorns cutting and scratching, their tendrils wrapping themselves around your arms and legs, preventing you from moving, choking the breath out of you. Overwhelming. Confusing. Out of control.

A garden is a wild beast that is never truly tamed, you see. Turn your back for a minute and it will rear up and snag you on its brambles, and trip you on its creepers. One does not simply plant a garden and be done with it. It must be observed, tended, nurtured and brought to heal when it gets unruly. It must be mastered by the gardener lest the gardener is mastered by it.

And with a little vigilance, some pruning here and there, sometimes some digging and planting, sometimes some trimming, mowing and watering, a garden can be sculpted and shaped and crafted. It can become a wonderful place to be. To spend time in. To rest awhile. A work of art. A masterpiece. A safe and happy retreat from the demands of the day, it will repay you for your efforts with fruit to eat and shade to eat it in. A sanctuary away from the troubles and din and disturbance that go on without cessation just the other side of the hedgerows.

This is a sacred space, its ground consecrated just for you, and it will protect you, provide for you, and nurture you, just so long as you fulfil your obligations to it. It is alive, and it is constantly moving, growing, shifting and turning. It is yours if you choose to command it, if you make the effort to tame it, but it will devour you if you do not.

This garden never stops moving. Somewhere weeds are always growing. Our strength comes from bending down to pull them up. From knowing when to plant, when to prune, when to harvest, when to let lie fallow. 

When to rest and when to work. 

You can buy vegetables and flowers in the shops. Regimented. Categorized. Sorted and uniform. But those you plant and water and grow yourself, those with nobbles and bobbles, character and charm and dug from your own soil, are more flavoursome and smell much sweeter. You can see all manner of fantastic, brightly coloured birds and animals in the zoo, but the robin which lands just a foot or two away as you dig the soil seems far more exotic, coming of its own volition to the safety and abundance of your garden. A walk in the park is refreshing, but the solitude of your own lawn, the shade of your own trees, and the sound of the bees buzzing among your own blossom is where life become enriched.

Remember the balance. Leave the garden untended for too long, and it will own you. 

But become too fastidious, pluck out every unruly leaf, snap off every misshapen twig and berry, obsess about the straight edges, the topiary and what the neighbours think of your water feature, and the garden will become barren, and it will own you.

You garden will reward you for the work you put in. But the work must be the reward itself. The aches after digging must be a satisfying reminder of your relationship with this space. The time spent among the flower beds planting and weeding must be meditative and restorative.

The garden is a place, and it is a state of being. And we must make it our own.