The second week of October, and the roses are blooming. They bloomed in May, tried their best again in the summer, but the rain battered them relentlessly. I’d assumed that was it for the roses for the year, naturally.
But, the second week of October, and some of them are blooming. Some buddleia blooms are getting a sort of second, or third, wind, too.
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Replanted the fuchsia, finally. We have talked and talked about how it was even there, why it was even there. No one put it there. It was never very happy there, really, was it, we say.
Cleared away ivy and bramble - we hadn’t realised how much of the paving had been taken over by it (I feel waves of regret and panic wash over me as I realise I didn’t take a picture before we did the clearing, only after).
The patch of soil from which the ivy slithered and crept, in which the fuchsia had self-seeded and taken over, actually starts so much further back that I had known. To look at it, with the fuchsia and ivy in pride of place, I thought the whole area was soil. The patch is actually absolutely tiny. With it gone, that area of patio looks naked now, exposed. I’m a bit worried for wildlife, that there’s less cover now. I’m a bit worried for the fuchsia, that he’ll miss us. I’m a bit worried for me, the jolt I get each time I look out.
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I thought I would really hate the fuchsia being gone. I put it off for a long time because of that. The change is a bit of a shock, the sudden gone-ness of it, but I realise, it’s not undiluted panic. I’m a bit sad, a bit riven with panic the way I always am when a no going back action has been taken (what if this was a stupid mistake, what harm was the fuchsia doing there, why on earth did I have to interfere) - but the abruptness of the change, I know this time, I’ll get used to; and, in the meantime, if I manage to stop my mind dragging me back, as many times a day as it tries, to remembering how it was, I have more space to properly see how it is now. How it might be after. Now, there is curiosity, even excitement, a feeling of refreshment to see the crept ivy cleared away, the removal of the obstruction that the fuschia created, as shielding and protective and comforting as it was, now reveals a vista I couldn’t see while it was there. A physical representation of a fresh start. Where for a long time I wanted the fuschia, the ivy to be allowed to stay where it was, where it had made its home, where it was used to: there’s now a portion of understanding that maybe it’s okay like this, too.
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In the patch of soil behind where all that ivy had been, a patch of soil I can’t have seen since I was a child, in which the clematis and honeysuckle have their roots: some sort of fencing, to create a border.
Nonni had wanted it to just be that little patch under the chimney stack, then. I’m the one who was glad for ivy and bramble to spill over, to claim the patio for its own, to see what nature does when it’s left to take over. I do know, as soon as I knew my own tastes, I wasn’t one for a bordered and clearly managed and maintained patio, or garden. For a time, that became never wanting to to cut anything back. Leave the garden to do what it wants; let that which wants to take over, take over. I still feel a pain in my chest when I see trees and hedgerows cut back, or in the process of being so. Even if I can now understand that sometimes it’s necessary to intervene a bit (a lot of times, when we see that being done around us, it is absolutely not for nature’s sake, though, believe me) to help it rest, to help it grow back stronger - it still pains me to see it.
Now: I’ll help, I’ll introduce, I’ll tame and bend and tie in. I’ll observe, I’ll intervene when needs be: but, at my core, I know I just want to see what it all does when left to do what it wants to do.
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In the patch of soil behind where all that creeping, now cleared, ivy had been: a pot. A pot of ivy. Some sort of scarf thing in the top of the pot. I cannot imagine why nonni put that there.
Seeing that pot, seeing the border fencing that I hadn’t known was there, even though I’ve been sitting beside it, unknowingly, almost every day for years: a twist of the heart and tummy that hasn’t unclenched since. Memory. Think of nonni there potting and planting, training clematis and honeysuckle, making a home, putting down roots, hoping.
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Where that ivy and bramble used to be, where the fuchsia used to be: I hope I can plant the potted buddleia, but I need to have a think first - maybe it will take over, maybe it will battle with the clematis that has been there for over 30 years. Maybe I’ll plant it anyway, and see. If it’s not working, if someone is suffering, it’s easy to uproot and find somewhere better suited to replant.
I planted, from pots, into the ground: the heather; the hebe; the (Japanese) anemones.
I planned: a woodland area for behind the flowerbed where the trees and hedge never let enough light in, but the sun falls, dappled, over the grass when it’s high in the sky. I hope for: daffodils, snowdrops, croci, (woodland) anemones, bluebells.
In the area where it’s always damp and mossy and shaded: a fern section, which has initiated itself, and which I’ll help along by introducing some more fern friends.
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People associate spring-time with planting, life, growth. September and October are the well-kept secret of all gardeners and nature lovers. Now, more than it ever is, it’s time to bustle; one last push. The birds know it, too, I see them, robby and jenny wren, the sparrows. I see them nosying around: what’s this now? What’s this new patch I haven’t explored. Any worms inadvertently uncovered for me? I see the starlings and the blackbirds and the thrushes feasting on all the seeds and berries they can get their beaks on. Now is the time.
Now is the time. To plant the seeds, the bulbs, to repot, to replant, to finish harvesting, to prune, to potter, to stand back and assess - what needs doing before we all hunker down. What can I do now that I’ll forget about and only remember when the spring comes. Time to do it now, and then step back; a chance for a long rest before it’s time to wake up in the spring and we see what’s taken, what’s sprouted, what’s grown, what’s happy, what isn’t.
Then, we have another rethink.
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