It’s a dismal day. Grey-ness of February could easily drag me down. Trees are bare. Plants are dormant. It’s horrid and I’m tempted to tell all how fed up I am with dark, dank winter. It’s Sunday; others are watching footie while I’d really like to watch the winter Olympics and imagine the fresh, clear mountain air in Cortina.

I spy the debris of roses, pyracantha, vines, holly, clematis and ivy that we hacked back last week overflowing from some yellow builders’ bags on the patio. An abandoned Christmas tree on the mossy lawn reminds me that the grass needs scarifying and some feeding. There are some Leylandii – not planted by me, I hasten to add – that I hate with a vengeance but which provide us with a grand log store for the winter and some welcome shade in the heat of summer; they guiltily remind me that I need to call an arborist to coppice them to a manageable size and to chop down the juniper that’s falling over threatening to fall on to our neighbours’ property, taking down the fence as it goes. The olive, apple, pear and fig trees need pruning. I’ve already passed the end-of-January deadline I gave myself. Oh help!

 

No stressing.

The sky won’t fall on my head, I remind myself sharply. It’s not that the garden doesn’t look like this every winter. When we’ve got the energy, we will deliver all this “green waste” to the local recycling centre. We’ll pick up some compost for mulching while we’re there………something positive I can do to prepare for the summer months ahead.

Why do I always focus on the bad stuff? The negative. Do I need the aggro? We’re not just human beings. We’re human do-ers as well. So I change tack and try to be positive about what’s “doing” in the garden I love so much.

The promise of colour

Beyond the frame there’s a clematis “freckles” trying hard – but failing as yet – to flower. it’s not springtime yet, but I feel the promise of brighter days to come.  There are black, empty spaces in the flowerbed where crocosmia, poppies, fuschia, dahlias, foxgloves, lavender should be – I chopped them all back yesterday – but I know that by August this patch of cold, muddy ground will be full of colour and insects. The sticky clay will have turned to concrete. My grandson calls it “the jungle-y bit” and pretends he’s an explorer.

When I stop to think about it, the cycle of Nature seems blindingly obvious – a hidden dynamo that drives change with the seasons.

I look harder.

The rambling roses I planted last winter are beginning to spread their shoots up into the canopy. Primulas are appearing. Some honeysuckle is already in bud and beginning to cover the blackness of a shed roof with lime green twigginess. Over in the corner, some snowdrops are emerging – the promise of spring to come. The tulip bulbs that I planted in the autumn with my granddaughter are popping up their green shoots; they should be in full flower when she next comes to visit. Out front, little clumps of daffodils are poking up their heads.

Stop Complaining!

I guess I’d be lying if I said that I never complain. Or grumble. Or whine. We all do it. Life gets us down a bit – we have a little grumble; things don’t quite turn out as we expected them to – we moan a bit; people don’t do what we expected them to do – we complain about it.  But maybe we have all become so used to dealing with complainers that we have stopped even noticing?  Maybe this dismal day isn’t quite so dismal after all?

It’s still grey and foggy, but there’s hope for the future. I pull on my boots and head outside.