7 - Gardening means Sanity

 "What is depression like? It's like drowning, except you can see everyone around you breathing." (HealthyPlace.com)

In spring 2020 the world was thrown into a pandemic and I went to pieces.

Mental health and gardening 

 My garden is not a luxury, nor a chore. It is a necessity for my mental health. Let me explain.

In February 2020 Covid-19 struck. Except the Netherlands had no clue it did, so our Catholic South celebrated carnival as usual and many other people went on their habitual skiing trip. By March people started to die; we were thrown into strict lockdown and shock. Schools, shops, bars, theatres, all places where people could gather were closed, folk were ordered to work from home.  By means of only one governmental commandment (thou shalt stay at home) my existence ground to a halt and I lost my entire social life overnight. I was also prohibited from visiting my gravely ill Mum, who lived in a secure old folks home due to her Alzheimer's and cancer.

Blossom time

Spring. Paradoxically, that Spring was the most gorgeous one I can remember. So at first I admired the blossom on the trees, the sunshine, the suddenly unprecedented clean kerosenetrail free blue skies, and rejoiced in my garden. But pretty soon loneliness sneaked up on me. I loathed the online lessons and meetings, I missed company, my art clubs, my band and most of all I felt I failed my mother. I was not allowed to visit her.

My balcony garden looked amazing in the sunshine. The Pelargoniums were a riot of colour, the Roses and Cannas were gorgeous, the herbs did great, everything seemed  hunky dory. But there was this dark Paynes Grey fog slowly but surely creeping over my Eden,  and covering me when I sat reading, next to Puck. And it wouldn't lift. Every time I battled medical burocracy, trying to them allow me to see my Mum but failing, that fog got a bit darker. And every time I lost half a newly written test paper at work because of defunct IT whatever, it deepened again.

And then in June Mum took to her bed and didn't come out. She was in pain, so much pain, she told me in a video call helped by a carer, but by the time I had screamed at her doctor and was finally allowed a 10 minute visit, all kitted up in PPE, she didn't recognise me anymore. I wasn't allowed to sit with her during her last hours. She died all alone.

My garden was my solace

Arrangements for her funeral were what kept me going, but afterwards there was a hole as large as the Cornwall porcelain quarry. It felt as bleached bone dry as well. And I turned to what I have done since I was a child in times of distress: I turned to the green spaces. Walking my dog was allowed, and cycling too, so that's what I did. I spent hours sitting amongst my plants, just sitting. You can say what you like, I am convinced that plants heal. Simply being with them, smelling them, brings peace. 

I used my Arabian mint to make tea, and watched the wind rustle the leaves of the Cannas, bathing in the scent of the lavender and lemon Pelargoniums. The English rose smiled at me. I imagined it spoke to me. A rose is a rose is a rose, and you will be alright. And I said thank you, for attempting to keep me grounded and sane.

In loving memory of Mum, who died on June 11th, 2020.

You can also follow me on Instagram @songsmith2962 and @grashoffr

3 - Mediterranean

 Smug in the face of climate change in my delta, I had my sunshade right, bring it on, in Spring 2019 I filled my garden with plants that should be able to cope better with the weather. The sickly Lonicera seemed to have perked up a bit, so I told it to hang on and dragged, pushed and shoved its trellis planter to the most shady corner. That means shade until mid-morning, sun thereafter. I put Nasturtium seeds at its feet for company. And rigged a line between a teepee and the rainpipe for my runner bean to climb. I could already taste the fresh beans, love them. Fired by the urge to grow some more veg, I sowed salad greens, got a tomato and a chilli plant and begged one of my friend's strawberries off him. Along with the herbs that had done very well and a variety of Pelargoniums in the railing planters, my garden looked very different from the first year. I was tempted to get a Musa...better not, that ever blowing wind, eh?

Puck and I installed ourselves on a lounger with book, beer, bone and a bowl of water and watched the veg grow. Every afternoon the jackdaws from the roost at the end of the street would line up on the edge of the roof opposite and stare at us. Puck would stare right back, she's very protective. Swifts swooped, a cuckoo called in the distance, the occasional screeching ringneck parakeet flew past, the slugs held war councils amongst themselves and the bees for some reason lacked.

That previous windstill scorching summer, I had had plenty of bees, hoverflies, wasps, houseflies and, darn it, mosquitoes. So what had happened? Well, there was the wind. We had extreme amounts of wind in 2019. And my Mediterranean collection didn't attract a lot of bees for some reason. In fact, my entire harvest of runner beans, non pollinated, consisted of 1 beautiful bean. Puck and I shared it ceremoniously and pronounced it delicious.

The Nasturtiums did very well, climbing the trellis, and trailing elegantly over the edge of the planter. But the Honeysuckle again dropped all its buds and most of its leaves. Then an unprecedented Summer gale struck. It whipped my Roses, tore off their leaves, gave the Pelargoniums a good shaking, threw over the Fatsia and tomato and made my tiny side table sail away. It landed three floors down and 10 m away at 3 cm from the fender of a Lexus. Some very posh neighbours here. For some reason this particular one was not amused. He screamed at me that I am an irresponsible nutty plantgeek. It sounds even worse in Dutch. So rude!

Okay, I did take better care of storm damage prevention after that. My roses recovered, I was so happy they did. And there was another, very unexpected, little success. When I arrived in this street in June 2018 there were no plants on the balconies. Some folk had artistic Buddhas, most had expensive lounge sets, and there were plastic lavenders and grasses dotted here and there (no doubt weighted down with heavy rocks). But nothing green and alive. Until I noticed in 2019 that on one of the balconies a miniature olive tree appeared (clashing somewhat with that Buddha) and look, on another a couple of tasteful clipped buxus balls. One family even went wild and put two mini palm trees on, hung with solar lights. Not outdone, the man in the flat opposite put down a cheerful planter full of geraniums and sat next to it every evening,  smoking and calling Poland.

See, my darling, I told Puck. Even a drop of water can eventually wear down a rock. All we have to do is show them how lovely real plants are. Puck agreed. She always does, good girl.

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