Through Lattice Windows: A Summer Garden
"We struggle against seemingly impossible odds, feeling as if things will never change. Then, suddenly, when we are not even thinking about the garden or whatever else has been the focus of our frustration, something shifts. We turn the corner, pedal furiously to keep up with the new responsibilities we now have, and - lo and behold, the next thing we know, what was desolate and dry has become a riot of colour and form,'' muses Leanne Hunt while enjoying the delights of her summer garden.
I am sitting in a corner of our garden, wondering if it is about to rain. It is a Saturday afternoon; the bees are buzzing persistently in the enormous monkey-berry tree overhanging the lower boundary wall and birds are calling to each other from the white stinkwood tree and a neighbouring rooftop. Nest-building weaver birds swear at one another in the bougainvillea creeper, which has clambered up a bottlebrush tree, and the dogs are happily sniffing through the lemon grass for crickets and lizards.
It is a beautiful garden, and one which I too often neglect. For years now, it has been maintained by a visiting garden service which cuts the lawn, trims the edges and weeds the beds. This time of year is always the most lovely because the day lilies and daisy bushes are in full bloom and the soil is damp from the recent summer rain.
Ten years ago, it didn't look anything like this. The house had been owned by an old couple who had once landscaped it beautifully, but in their latter years had left the palms and irises to take over. All the shrubs were clipped into neat balls by their faithful old gardener. The only new plants that had been added were monkey-berry saplings, self-seeded with the help of wild birds.
We didn't have the money then to do anything significant to improve things. Besides basic maintenance, all we managed was to cut back some of the invasive cat's claw creeper and thin out the irises. There was an ancient pair of change-rooms for a pool that had long ago been filled in, and the ground behind it was beyond useless - full of old cement chips and rubble.
Yet the garden had potential and I could foresee what it could be like with proper refurbishing. I remember trying to plant grass in the rubble behind the change rooms and failing dismally. Water that gushed off the roof and down the side of the garden in a torrent posed a dreadful problem because it gouged out the earth and turned the lower western corner into a swamp. Several times I tried to build a channel for it out of loose stones and bricks, but they invariably got washed away in the next rain storm. In the end, I simply stopped bothering.
Then our fortunes changed and we found we could afford professional landscaping. A talented young man drew up a design according to my specifications and brought in his team of labourers. The first thing to go was the ancient pair of change-rooms, followed by everything with thorns and barbs - save the roses. Within a matter of days, he had marked out the borders and begun to lay a permanent edge for the beds on three sides of the house. The trees were all outlined in strong, straight lines, and areas for bedding plants and indigenous shrubs were demarcated in bold geometric strokes. Then came the rooting out of plants which had become woody and the introduction of promising young specimens. Strips of instant lawn were laid on top of the rubble, after which topsoil was added to obtain a smooth finish.
A garden needs time to establish itself, so it was a full year before the beds had filled out, the ground-covers had knitted together and the flowering shrubs had recovered from the shock of being transplanted. But by then the birds had returned to build nests, butterflies had emerged from their cocoons to flit among the foliage, and bees had begun to pollenate the flowers industriously. From being a wilderness of neglected, ageing plants, the garden had received a fresh injection of life.
Recalling all this makes me reflect that a lot can be achieved over time if one is willing to let things take their course. The years I spent battling to grow grass and manage the flow of rain water were frustrating, but even they had their place. Without them, I would not have engaged with the creepers, the soil and the insects. I would not have formed a vision of what the garden could be like if and when we had the money to change it. And I would not have imprinted on my mind the images of grey earth, dilapidated buildings and eroded flower-beds which provide the baseline from which I can measure the transformation that has since taken place.
Life is like that, isn't it? We struggle against seemingly impossible odds, feeling as if things will never change. Then, suddenly, when we are not even thinking about the garden or whatever else has been the focus of our frustration, something shifts. We turn the corner, pedal furiously to keep up with the new responsibilities we now have, and - lo and behold, the next thing we know, what was desolate and dry has become a riot of colour and form. Where once the sun cracked the muddy residue of summer flooding, healthy roots now hold the soil together and transmit fruitfulness and heavenly fragrance for creatures small and great to enjoy.
**
Do visit http://diamondpanes.blogspot.com/
