We planted a garden. Okay, ‘garden’ might be overstating it a little.
Almost a year ago, we moved from a lifetime of houses with gardens to an apartment with a 10 X 2.5m terrace. I am so grateful to have an outdoor space that gets rain and sun, but it is, essentially, a concrete box, reflecting our suburb which is predominantly grey and industrial, rather than lush and green.
In the last month, though, all has changed. After a long wait (everyone must be gardening madly in lockdown) we found a nursery that had not only pots and potting mix in stock, but also all the plants we had planned and longed for. A flurry of joyous activity followed and now we have a mini-garden, with a veritable riot of colours to look out on.
We had already planted a row of callistemon in sturdy pots; this fortnight they have exploded into a storm of crimson. We have convolvulus – both mauve and white - that we hope will cascade extravagantly from these larger pots. We have little bursts of seaside daisies filling any gaps we can find. We have climbing fig and Boston ivy trailing up our walls. The lemon and the lime that we planted months ago are replete with fresh new growth. We have flashy, frilly, completely over the top pink lavender. And we have showy petunias – opulent purple, deep red and stark white. It’s a circus out there.
I’ve never been much of a green fingers and anything but the smallest of gardens overwhelms me. To my immense satisfaction and quiet pride, I discover that our terrace is just the right size for me-as-gardener, allowing me to know each plant intimately.
Every day I go out repeatedly to literally talk to our plants. I ask how they are going. I encourage them to put their roots down, to get comfortable, to feel at home. I reassure them that we will care for them as best we can.
My spirits have lifted, and it’s not just the coming of spring, although a garden, no matter how modest, is most exciting in this season. The green and the bright colours give me a pure, simple, childlike kind of happiness. I feel an astonishment at the generosity of the natural world, a wonder at the mind of the creator. It’s remarkable enough to have utilitarian plants like grain and vegetables, but did we really need callistemon? And petunias? Their only possible reason for existing is to bring joy, and to give us a glimpse into the nature of a Creator who revels in over-the-top beauty. To remind us of Jesus who took pleasure in ‘the lilies of the field’, comparing them favourably to King Solomon in all his glory.
And maybe the Creator God - the Gardener God - is like me with my plants, bending down to each tree and stream and mountain and bird, to each beloved human creature, with delight and gentle encouragement, murmuring tenderly to us, enabling us, with unrelenting love, to become our best, most beautiful selves.
This was published in the November issue of The Melbourne Anglican