Lush hangers on

Looking out in the garden today, the juicy colours of Autumn merge with with hangers on from summer. Deep, dark claret geraniums and petunias still flower while the fuschias hang pinky white heads over the pots like stragglers from last night's party, reluctant to say their farewells and sleep.

Lush terracotta pots full of winter pansies hold the tulip bulbs under cover from enquiring squirrels. Piano sounds deepen in the background; the soundtrack in tune with the dripping of rain coming through the kitchen ceiling once more.

Perhaps next Spring, we'll finally fix this roof. Meanwhile it steadily re-assures me that nature will always win over our efforts to get the world in order.

Reverting to type

It's been a few weeks since my standing and staring has arrived on the page. The hollyhocks I nurtured were once all shades of ruby and peachy pink. They've gone all white now, in strong contrast to the Stipa Gigantea.

Under pressure, I too revert to type. Once calm and collected, next anxious and snappy. Sorry folks. I like humans to join harmoniously, form connections and have fun - rather like my plants do.

The Thin Line

'Intruders Keep Out'. Every home could post a severe warning at its entrance. I'm weeding the front borders of this ancient farmhouse where wild Valerian spills onto the gravel and meshes with tough grass and bramble.

Wearing the owner's gardening gloves, wielding her secateurs, I hack back enthusiastically. Until I'm struck by a deep sense of intrusion. "Is this what she wants?" I ask myself and tread the fine line from helpful to intrusion.

Stepping back to her seat beneath the vine, I sense my job is to cut out damage while keeping the beauty of gentle leaves and deep pink flower heads that frame the doorway to the house.

As temporary custodian of the space, I take the gardener's Hippocratic oath, promising to leave the garden in good health, treat it with respect and encourage it to thrive for years to come.

Legacy of books and compost

I adore the feel of rich compost in my hands and feet. Gardening in flip flops beckons as the spring warms up. Living here with light sandy soil means I’m constantly improving that quality and gathering every scrap of fruit and vegetable skins, dead flowers and leaves into buckets by the back door.

I also love books and magazines, reading as much as I can to improve the depth of my own writing. This week a friend recycled a feminist title from 1985 called ‘The Dance of Anger’ by Harriet Goldhor Lerner. The author invites us to examine family patterns of behaviour going back through the generations.

Looking at my own family and friendships, I’m connected to women who find a common language through their gardens, giving and gaining pleasure from this space. I’m also mindful how the women in my life have shaped my own beliefs and behaviours, and the values I am passing on to my own daughters as they fly the family home.

Although, Lerner’s book says it’s a woman’s guide, there’s plenty in her stories of value for the men in my life. In my corporate coaching, for example, I always hear the stories of a father’s words to his son played out in another way. The frustrations of a manager with his colleagues so often stem from the family relationships. Our behaviour has deep rooted experiences.

Like a fluent writer, an enthusiastic gardener creates a legacy for the future generation to build on. Today’s fuchsia rhododendron breaking into flower owes its space here in my garden to an adventurous plant hunter travelling in the 1800s.

Yesterday’s rain combined with this morning’s sun loosens the soil for me to grab the emerging bindweed before it strangles the spinach and rocket seedlings in the veg patch. Yesterday’s apple cores and red pepper seeds will provide the compost to nurture the next generation.