When I purchased my Gettysburg farmhouse, it was dead of winter. But we had seen pictures of its beautiful gardens, lovingly tended by a noted herbalist. She mixed her own batch of compost, formulated her own plant food nourishment, and kept each weed at bay.
So intricate were her historical plantings that, written in the house closing, was permission for her to revisit in the spring and dig up all the toxic herbs she had planted.
The garden pictures looked so extraordinary; but extraordinary means time, devotion, and vigilance. The garden became more a point of stress…..I wanted to keep each plant as it was, each weed invisible, each bloom unblemished.
I was fearful at pulling the wrong thing, tearful at the loss of a sickly resident, and more intent at keeping “her” garden than enjoying my own.
Me, I am more of a wild child…..I think our gardens mirror our wishes……
The flowers mingle with the ivy now…..and the wildflowers and the dandelions.
It might not look as pristine to a passing eye; but it is a jumble of blooms and bugs and butterflies and birds……who have a varied assortment to flitter among in the garden patches.
We must make our gardens, our lives, our purpose……our own. We cannot tend what others choose. We must tend to our own; then, our gardens will be a place of bliss for what blooms there, not stress over what doesn’t.