I am happy in the garden.
What may look like a simple sentence from a children’s early reader is as complex as can be. Happy is difficult. Happy is complicated. Happy sits hand in hand with guilt and longing and stares accusingly at its source. The widow can be happy; there’s another one for you. For me. I am happy in the garden.
The spring that I was holding on for has arrived and I have come to life, there is another room to my house and it is only filled with good times, successes and achievements. I still look up at Seb’s office window as I did when he was there. The gaze of a woman who missed a man sat only metres away, a look of admiration to catch him engrossed in work; not catching me looking. The pain of his absence does not sting in the way that it did, like a cut that only hurts once you realise its there. I am used to it now- the lack of him, I am almost certain that he wont turn up but sometimes I feel him here. He exists in a dual reality- all the best of him preserved now. I can go there. I can remember him fondly and not want to scream.
I will be throwing open the gate as soon as it is allowed and my garden will enfold us all. We will be happy in the garden.
It started with the seating. How many folk could I see at once and where would they sit. Then there was some demolition. Then I shaped and made and built- I’m not done yet. I spend hours, I set an alarm to avoid missing school pick up time. When I return indoors I look in the mirror and there is light in my eyes, new freckles have appeared. I talk to my plants with love and admiration- the same care I try to give myself.
Our little garden holds acres of tomorrows. The sleeping plants have begun to yawn and stretch- to pop a foot out of the bed and test the air. The heating is coming on.
The lawn has gone- I dug it up. I am sowing a wildflower meadow, I’ve read all about it and the promise of flowers teeming with life. I want to sit and look at the plants and the creatures. I want to share it with LP- I see a future photo of a little girl in a sunhat squinting in the sun, surrounded by colour. I imagine myself still in pyjamas, listening to the birds in the early light- first cuppa in hand. These things tell me that we are still here.
When I am not gardening, when I am just sat thinking, I try to work out why it is that the gardening helps. There is the planning on paper- the act of drawing and being able to sketch out my ideas, proving that my brain is working. I can start again as many times as I like here. I don’t scribble through past efforts but enjoy the evolution of the ideas. I stand outside staring at the space and imagining. I search online for answers or lose myself in pinterest pictures- swiping through each thrilling image; tall alliums; grasses to peer through; the wonder of whether the foxgloves will put on the show that I am hoping for. I garden in my mind in a double-fronted cottage with decades old wisteria- I can almost hear the chickens. Our garden is sheltered from the sea, with brick walls that absorb the heat of the day- I want to fill it with tiny fleabane daisies- making their way wherever they choose- hiding tiny inhabitants. I am hoping that the humble lavender plants will join up and hold hands, I will run my hand over the flowers and marvel at the scent.
It follows that after the dreaming and the paper plans there is the physical effort it takes to create a garden. I enjoy every stretch, each lift confirming my strength, the digging and the moving and the order I create. I wear an old navy blue spotted waterproof now dulled by mud with bits of string in the pockets and rubber ankle boots that deliberately match; reassuringly battered by the activities. I am a character in the story of the green-fingered widow.
Indoors I will sow seeds and fill window ledges with trays and pots. I will write labels and wish that my handwriting was prettier. I will point out the growth in photographs to friends and look for when the seedlings are ready to move on. I will surrender my efforts to the outdoors and hope they thrive.
In a few months, when it is time to cover up the furniture and protect the pots, I will return to my sketchbook and I will remember that it is a gift to be able to do this; for every spring that I am living- I am happy in the garden.