becoming a joyful gardener

I have always loved growing plants, but can honestly say that this is the first year in my life that I’m really appreciating just how joyful an activity gardening can be. This is probably because gardening, for me, has often been as much a matter of frustration and loss as it has joy. In Edinburgh in the 00s, Tom and I spent many impatient years on the allotment waiting list, then, when we finally acquired a plot, I had my stroke and we immediately had to give it up. I lost many things after my stroke, and my lovely allotment, with its tiny greenhouse and inherited grapevine, was definitely among the most upsetting of those losses.

Our Carbeth house came with a huge lawn, in the middle of which we put some raised beds. There I was able to grow vegetables and sweet peas, and I successfully brought on flowers (like lupins) from seed, but I was often frustrated by the conditions (the garden was high, exposed, and composed of heavy clay) and I was held back by my own post-stroke limitations (such as my inability to use a spade or lawnmower). Sometimes, I found gardening very tiring; at other times, it became oppressive, a source of frustration and often sadness, as I found myself coming up against things I could not do – or in some cases felt I could not do.

That feeling of inability is key, as in retrospect, I do think that my perception of my limitations, as much as the actual limitations themselves, might have held me back, for many years, from being a joyful gardener. Gardening necessarily involves a lot of kneeling and bending: activities that can be painful or hazardous for me, as my lack of balance and general wonkiness means that I’m continually falling over. (I’m always in danger of toppling, and becoming stuck like Kafka’s beetle). Looking back, I think that my concerns about destroying plants by falling on them, as well as (I am ashamed to say) the prospect of being seen and pitied as a disabled gardener by my always close-by neighbours, hampered my gardening ambitions somewhat. I didn’t want to squish the hard-won fruits of my labours, and nor did I want to be observed falling over, or assuming the often undignified positions neccessary to restore my balance.

Since moving here to the mill, several things have restored my confidence, and allowed me to find my feet, as it were, as a physically wonky but joyful gardener. The first (and definitely the most important) is that this garden is not only well-established, but was made by someone who knows an awful lot about plants and planting. The shrubs and perennials have been carefully chosen and positioned and I spent much of last spring and summer just watching what was here, and being amazed by the extraordinary beauty and diversity of the garden I’d inherited.

This spring, the garden is still throwing up surprises, such as a peony I hadn’t previously noticed, and these tall peachy foxgloves which, being biannual, did not put on a show last year.

I have gradually built my confidence by watching everything in my garden grow, trying to learn about the needs of different plants, beginning to figure out when to intervene when necessary, and just giving things a go. There are several different clematis here, for example, all flowering at different times, and hailing from different pruning groups. I took photos of each cultivar and kept notes about what they need.

I’d never pruned a clematis or a rose before, but between last autumn and this spring have done quite a bit of both.

This is “rhapsody in blue” – which is now blooming quite rhapsodically, with its lovely, light fragrance, in the area where I like to sit and knit.

In early spring, I cut it back quite hard, mulched it, and fed it, and it is now rewarding me with vigorous growth and abundant blowsy flowers.

Every small success like this rose, or my meconopsis, has helped to build my confidence, and I have to say that I’ve gained another confidence boost from Gardener’s World, which I began to watch again last year. I saw Sue Kent enthusiastically gardening with her feet, and enjoyed the coverage of the gardening practices of other disabled people, particularly one chap with MS, who was very open and straightforward about the resourcefulness he needed to develop and care for his beautiful garden. All over the country I saw disabled people enjoying their gardens. What was I so afraid of, really? What was the worst that could happen? Falling over? I am quite used to that. Squashing a plant or plants? This is hardly the end of the world. Finding some gardening activities physically painful and / or frustrating? I must just get over myself, and, when necessary, ask for help.

By emphasising what I can do, and asking for assistance when I can’t I’ve managed to accomplish a fair bit in the past few months.

Pots, for example, are brilliant for me, because they are easy to get at, work in, and maintain

Pots also do not (usually) present a trip hazard (included in that “usually” are a few ridiculous falls and bruises). I do need some help with the really heavy pot work – last week, for example, I had to ask Tom to move and up-end all of the huge lasagnes so that I could remove this year’s bulbs for experimental replanting in the autumn – but I managed all the tulip excavation, compost rejuvenation, and general pot-sorting-out myself.

I’ve been genuinely uplifted by what I’ve been able to achieve with the pot-grown tulips, and surprised myself with the ground-planted bulbs as well.

Last autumn, I got Tom to lift some huge lilies (which I sadly cannot tolerate due to their migrainous associations) and filled the space with loads of allium bulbs. I didn’t dig the bed over (because I can’t) but did manage to put in the bulbs and lay down loads of organic mulch, with a thick top layer of bark, the idea being that this would improve the soil and help suppress and / or identify weeds (especially, I hoped, the bindweed, to which this area of the garden is unfortunately prone).

This spring, my new allium bed has flourished wonderfully, with gigantic cultivars with names like “Gladiator” and “Everest” shooting up at the back . . .

. . . and smaller varieties like “Lucky Balloons” towards the front.

I confess the name of this cultivar might have played a part my purchasing its bulbs, but I find these cheery-pink pom-poms, bobbing about on their multiple stems completely delightful!

My mulching work did indeed help with the bindweed (whose vigorous, pesky shoots I can now spot easily every morning, and pull out) but the bark layer also seemed to be enjoyed by the slugs who found it a lovely damp place to hide and have slug fun-times in early spring. Gardening swings and roundabouts.

Theres lots of aquilegia in this garden: gorgeous cultivated hybrids, like this:

and wild varieties like this.

Aquilegia are promiscuous self-seeders, and I’ve just let them go for it at the front of the borders, where loads have sprung up this year. Other self seeders are also flourishing, like the candelabra primroses . . .

. . . and the red valerian (which I’ve allowed to escape from a bed into the front gravel, where it is spreading itself about quite freely)

The final – and absolutely crucial – thing about becoming a joyful gardener has been not just accepting my limitations, but finding ways to adapt myself to them. I can’t dig, but I can mulch. Similarly, I can’t operate a strimmer, but I can (gradually) try to get rid of the need to use one. At the moment, my neighbours John and Donald cut the grass for me, but my intention is to adapt the garden to my abilities by completely getting rid of the (for me) totally unmanageable lawn. Over time (and it will have to be over time) I intend to eat away at the lawn, lifting blocks of turf, laying down mulch and paths, and gradually expanding the range and extent of what I plant each autumn. It will be fun.

I’ve found joy in this garden then, first because, it was already here, just waiting for me to learn about it and look after it, in my own way; second, because I’ve let go of my fears about it, tolerating the prospect of plant damage (likely) personal injury (possible) and indignity (routine), and finally because I’ve been able to accept my own limitations and adapt, planting up easy to manage pots, laying down thick mulches rather than digging over, doing what weeding I can while allowing self seeders to spread themselves about, and asking for help when necessary, especially from Tom, who is always there to help me to my feet if I fall over, dig out a massive phyllostachys nigra, or cut back and tie in this huge, rather, unruly climbing rose.

The garden has been such a restorative space for me this spring, and has been particularly helpful during a time when I’ve been unable to take long walks (or, actually, any walks), and when I am trying to face, with equanimity, the increasingly likely prospect of post-stroke physical decline. Here I’ve found huge rewards just from being patient, paying attention, and giving things a go. All things I might usefully bear in mind, whatever my physical future brings.