The Garden
As I stood in the garden my fingers gloved and holding a pair of secetares I hardly knew where to begin…
Rambling roses were strewn haphazardly in all directions; weeds were strewn lavishly amongst both flower beds and amongst the lawn. (At least where I imagined the flower beds and lawn were to be.) The grass was more like a meadow as it nestled knee high in seed. At the bottom of my meadow was an orchard of sorts; with most of the plums, damsons, and apples rotting at the base of the tree trunks. Wasps buzzed about frantically and menacingly daring me to interfere with their feasting. The propaganda spoke loudly that all in favour of changing the status quo would be punished most severely by briars and lacerations. I almost felt myself persuaded to leave all as it were in disarray and chaos- there was enough to do inside the house. Tall red plumages lifted their heads sadly out of the mire as if they knew their death was imminent at the end of the day. Yet still they stood there as if awaiting redemption despite the choking ivy that threatened them with its curling tendrils ready to suck the life out of its victims like a python coiling tighter and tighter around its helpless prey. Splashes of colour here and there seemed to speak to me to try and remind me of former times when this garden was once loved and beautiful, that it did have a gardener at one time who pruned her keeping the weeds at bay and that there was a plan and design in mind. All I had to do was uncover this hidden glory and make this discovery anew. Problem was it was going to take a long time and a lot of effort. These things too time especially when I had a part time job and two young children to look after. Why not bulldoze the lot? Start again with a clean slate instead of pruning and clearing diligently now that was an idea! Maybe a little patio and a grassy expanse of lawns for my kids to revel in with swings, a trampoline and a climbing frame. I wouldn’t have to do a thing except buy a great big lawn mower- you know the one more like a tractor to zip up and down. There wouldn’t be any worries about the football crashing into roses or fusias. A few pots would all be what were required to make the patio attractive. Minimalism; that’s what they call it; oh and practical too. Why not take the easy way out everybody else does especially when my hands are as full as they are what with teaching and two tear away little boys?
The idea had merit especially as I wanted a garden suitable for the boys to play in. The house was in such a mess even though most of the boxes had been opened and the contents put away there was just so much to do. All the same I was determined to make a start outside even though a mini digger would need hiring to do the bulk of the clearing then new turf could be put down. Most of the day I had spent putting toys into special places; a box of Lego here and soft toys arranged along the bed which was soon bulldozed by a yellow JCB that my two year old loved. I think it was me that really liked the fluffy dog and Winnie the Pooh although the fluffy dog had never quite looked the same after it had been put on a fast spin and whirled around in the dryer. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to bin it.
All the same there was no time like the present and I opened the catch on the secetares ready for business. The sun was no longer directly overhead and had begun its afternoon journey lazily blazing in the warm late August sky. The little one was now snoozing, softly snoring in his own cute way while my nine year old was mesmerised by fast action adrenaline fuelled car racing on the Playstation. I had a good hour or two to produce some results in my overgrown wilderness. But where to begin? I thought it might be good to clear a patch close to the back door where I could put the sand pit – a rather large frog usually filled with golden sand but being too heavy to transport; its contents had been emptied to start afresh at the new house.
I began cutting away at the blackberry briars that had almost become a feature of the back garden, despite the protestations that blackberry picking would be great in the garden; and ‘but Mum!’ whined in that especially irritating way kids can when annoyed. A very firm ‘No’ had been given. It wasn’t long before my fingers received the first of many scratches as I snipped and tugged at roots that tenaciously clung to the hardened earth. It was as if the garden were whipping my fingers for this heinous act of savagery. Yet these thorned briars were not safe in my designated sandpit area for my children of any other JCB drivers that might wish to build new constructions. No, they had to go, and although it was painstaking work I battled on regardless of scratches. Painful welts appeared on the backs of my hands and lower arms that bled leaving several blood splashes dried onto the earth as evidence of my battle with the enemy. These I ignored as best I could as distractions from my mission, however the little bristles that stuck into my fingers like spikes were not possible to ignore. I stuck my fingers into my mouth to suck these offending items out of my skin. Its strange how smaller abrasions can cause more pain than larger cuts but it was these bristles which caused my fingers to throb the most painfully. I hacked ruthlessly for what felt like a never ending time slot. How long a couple of hours could be especially this torturous? I wiped the back of my hand across my brow feeling beads of perspiration which were mixed with dirt from my gloves. Humph- those gloves had hardly offered any protection at all; ‘gardener’s gloves’ had been on the label from the gardener’s centre. The manufacturers obviously knew nothing about the viscitudes of my garden; after all the original gardener had left and I was merely a tenant of the house, gingerly stepping out into the dangerous world of weeds and briars. I viciously attacked another briar regardless of the consequences pondering how the garden didn’t belong to me, that I was not its master but more like its victim after all it was my blood trickling down my arms. It’s funny how blackberries can taste so sweet and yet cause so much pain. Almost as if the two natures are at war, such contrasts; the sweet fruit and the thorny briars. Yet I also recall several blackberry picking experiences where the fruit was puny, dry and tasteless just full of seeds to produce more unpleasantness. You just didn’t know what to expect, but what joy a successful outing could give. Baskets laden with dark fruits, ready to burst with juiciness, to be made into jams and tarts. I decided I might leave some of the briars at the very end of the garden where the little orchard was- you never could tell what sweet tasting delights might be produced. My eldest son would be so pleased and I could help him in the autumn fill his basket for me to make tasty delicacies just like my mother had done for me.
At the bottom of the garden stood an old man leaning over the fence looking at the orchard and surveying the fallen fruit.
“Most of it has gone rotten,” he called to me, “such a shame to see a crop go to waste like that."
His face was brown like leather tanned from spending long years outside in all weathers. His back was straight and strong despite his seventy years. His lined face was framed by white hair and eyebrows which arched above twinkling blue eyes.
“Yes,” I agreed, “the fruit isn’t good for anything apart for wasps”.
The old man nodded wisely, “see what happens next year, but I’d cut off any of the dead wood if I were you. Cultivating a new garden can be a rough time but it’ll be worth the effort especially for those young uns of yours.”
He turned away without waiting for an answer but I suspected my new neighbour would be overseeing the whole affair.
I returned to my briar clearing for only a while longer before the patch was cleared and several full bin liners had been tossed into the skip. Despite my lacerations I felt a sense of fulfilment pass through me as if I had conquered a part of the wilderness for the well being of my small children. I heard my little one crying and knew all my attention would have to be spent with him. I felt tired but playing with bricks would at least be a different kind of activity and there was always Thomas DVD’s if I couldn’t keep up with the schedule of a toddler.
As I surveyed the wilderness which was my garden I decided the next issue was to get rid of all that rotten fruit so the wasps would hopefully leave us be. Clouds were beginning to form as they often do after a few days good weather in England. And so I left the garden to plunge myself into the afternoon activities with my children.
That night I watched the sky out of the window with my eldest son. “Five, six, seven…” he counted and an enormous rumble ensued. Rain fell in torrents from an unforgiving sky that mercilessly hurled rain and fire upon the Earth. Its wrath and might were fearsome to behold as it bellowed out its warnings alerting the Earth to the power of the elements. At times like these you realise just how small and powerless we really are; and yet we call ourselves masters of our planet. Forked lightening pierced the night sky so that it resembled day light for a short moment striking the Earth with scorching power. Again, seconds later, eagerly counted, were the inevitable rumbles of thunder bellowing the storm’s malcontent throughout the land. Was it purpose to wash away all that was bad in the world? Or merely to drown any good soil in my garden? All that could really be said is that it would pass; any damage done would need to be repaired and the ground would give up its weeds much more easily. All I could do was watch the storm’s full brutality until it blew itself out. Several of the fence panels were old and did not look like they would survive some of the stronger gusts of wind that tore around my garden like a pack of wolves. I wondered whether or not I had sufficient funds to buy new fencing or if I should have stone walls built in their place to keep the children safely inside their protective mantle. I would have to see what the new day would bring. That night was one full of dreams of being chased by storm clouds that held lightening forks as if they were Gods on Mount Olympus trying to chase me out of my garden and away from my gardening. They did not want me tending the wounds they had inflicted upon the Earth, but as in all dreams they are more fearsome when it is believed they have power; but they fade into an insubstantial mist when the daylight enters their realm of darkness.
When I awoke the sunlight streamed into my bedroom through paisley curtains and I was greeted with cuddles from my boys. Breakfast as usual was a noisy affair; filled with laughter, chatting and munching toast, with seemingly endless demands for more rounds with marmite, butter or jam. Finally, once all the breakfast plates and cups were washed and put away. I made myself a nice hot mug of tea which I held in both hands as if to give myself reassurance with its warmth and stepped out into the back door into my garden to survey the aftermath of the storm. It was pretty much as I expected; steam was rising from the ground as the morning sunshine evaporated the drenched watery garden. Several of the taller flowers had been decimated by the heavy rain, and along one side of the fence several panels had been blown down, other parts of the fence had several broken slats. My eye swept to the fruit trees yet they didn’t seem any worse for wear.
Sipping my steaming tea I carefully stepped along the path avoiding the puddles as best as I could. The fragrance was an intoxicating medley of aromas; fresh pine, lavender, sea scent from the rain, plums and damsons. Everything felt clean and new as if a fresh spirit had filled the garden with life giving dew sparkling like diamonds everywhere I looked. My senses tingled with every step I took. A blackbird burst into song as I reached the fruit trees and sparrows chirruped from the topmost branches.
“Good morning Miss,” a familiar voice greeted me with gruff friendliness, it was my elderly neighbour. I returned the greeting and sipped some of the brown liquid from my mug.
“Looks like the dead wood has been blown down for you.” He smiled warmly his blue eyes twinkling. I thought his eyes looked ageless within his tanned leather face and did not match his wrinkled brow that spoke of many years. I looked at the ground now littered with broken twigs and had not had sap flowing through them for some while; they were brittle and had snapped off easily in the high winds of the night before.
“Yes it does, but there’s a lot more needing to be done now,” I replied looking sadly at the fencing.
“Wouldn’t have lasted much longer anyway,” he nodded sagely, “just make sure the foundations are firm before you begin again.” With these parting words I was left to my own devices once more pondering where to start. My eye fell on the rotting fruit now sodden and blackened by rain. The wasps were gone so I decided to fill black bin liners with the discarded fruit and broken twigs and take them to the tip for composting. It seems strange that even useless dead remains can bring forth new life from their decay.
As I muttered to myself in the car, having left the children in the care of my father, a thought struck me. How God causes rain to fall on the Earth to wash away dead remains and that in the thunderstorm at Jesus death his blood fell upon the Earth to wash it clean with his sacrificial death. His body cold in the tomb brought forth the new everlasting life, one to ransom many from death. I knew then that my garden would bring forth new life that I the tenant would in my turn watch over my children playing there safely in the knowledge that they would be protected.
