Today I bit the bullet and tackled the garden, uprooting weeds (well, most of the plants actually; at this point I can’t tell what’s what) and getting rid of empty snail shells and (cat? fox?) poo.
It was gross at times, it was hard work, but it was also therapeutic. Underneath all the mess, I can see snow drops and hydrangeas peeking through – they’ll be ready in a few months.
As I get more busy, my gardening has become more infrequent, which is a shame because gardens have life all year round . Even in the dead of winter there are always little signs that spring will come eventually.
It’s comforting. It’s hopeful. It’s a timely reminder that no matter what happens, life goes on.
I was dreading looking at my roses, which have been swimming in their pots thanks to the torrential downpours we’ve experienced this winter. But as I drained the water from the pots and pruned off the dead branches, I saw delicate little buds tucked away beneath the leaves, waiting for Spring.