Lockdown Gardening
Written by: Vanessa Luna
This is the year: A plant’s guide to life.
Every year at the beginning of spring Daniel looks at our little apricot tree, and says with his hands resting on his hips, “Maybe we’ll get some apricots this year, love.” He putters around in the garden looking at all his plants waking up after a long wet winter. Every year we get a late frost and the blossoms fall from the apricot tree. Every year all that grows are leaves, and still, he’s so proud of our little tree. Proud that even though it’s never given us fruit, it still grows taller and taller. It’s a bit like life, isn’t it? A bit of a disappointment yes, but also a bit of beauty.
I sat at the kitchen table looking out at that tree covered in buds and tiny flowers. He thinks this is the year. This is the year we’ll get our apricots. We believe this every. single. year. He says if we ever move to the US and have to leave it maybe we could take it out into the woods and plant it somewhere. It’s nice to think about that. A piece of our lives growing deep into the English soil. Rooted in a place that we’ve spent our first few years as a married couple.
The late frost came, and the blossoms fell, as they always do. But of course, this year was different. Of course, this spring didn’t just bring a late frost. Oddly enough, as the world fell apart around it, our lovely apricot tree died. Daniel thinks he overfed it. I think it knew the world was going to shit and just wanted out.
In the beginning, when we used to talk about our dreams, they always included a garden. To me a garden symbolizes settling. Spreading our roots. Reaching across a piece of land to claim it as our own. That’s when Daniel got the tree. The year I moved here it was ready to be replanted, and the yearly budding and falling began. It grew slowly, but steadily.
When it died I felt a deep tinge of sadness. That tree was a part of us. Our first step of settling, and growing together.
The first time I ever came to England he taught me about the chalky soil here in the Southwest. He showed me how to loosen the roots of a plant. We’ve planted so many roots since then. It began with succulents, then lavender, then the fruit, and the vegetables. Our house is filled with countless terracotta pots..
When I moved here, and couldn’t find a job, the plants became like my friends, and this year they became my lifeline. It’s amazing what you find locked in your own home. How your garden can become your sanctuary. Listening to Fleetwood Mac, replanting my "friends" into new pots imagining how happy they are with more room for their roots to spread. This was my new normal.
The late frost came, and the blossoms fell, as they always do. But of course, this year was different. Of course, this spring didn’t just bring a late frost. Oddly enough, as the world fell apart around it, our lovely apricot tree died. Daniel thinks he overfed it. I think it knew the world was going to shit and just wanted out.
In the beginning, when we used to talk about our dreams, they always included a garden. To me a garden symbolizes settling. Spreading our roots. Reaching across a piece of land to claim it as our own. That’s when Daniel got the tree. The year I moved here it was ready to be replanted, and the yearly budding and falling began. It grew slowly, but steadily. So, when it died I felt a deep tinge of sadness. That tree was a part of us. Our first step of settling, and growing together.
The first time I ever came to England he taught me about the chalky soil here in the Southwest. He showed me how to loosen the roots of a plant. We’ve planted so many roots since then. It began with succulents, then lavender, then the fruit, and the vegetables. Our house is filled with countless terracotta pots.. When I moved here, and couldn’t find a job, the plants became like my friends, and this year they became my lifeline. It’s amazing what you find locked in your own home. How your garden can become your sanctuary. Listening to Fleetwood Mac, replanting my "friends" into new pots imagining how happy they are with more room for their roots to spread. This was my new normal.
I killed quite a few of my plants by not letting them be. A thrip (aphid) infestation threatened to wipe them out, and I had to bring a bunch of plants back from the brink of death. I watched horticulture YouTube videos, read houseplant blogs, and checked out books from the library for the first time in years! I wanted to know them inside and out; but all the books and tips from the pros taught me very little compared to what my plants taught me. Every night, I’d go to sleep with pandemic anxiety running through my head. Fearing if we’d have enough money to pay the bills. I’d wake up the next morning, brew my cuppa, go outside, and lose myself in the soil. Every day there was something new to learn. The plants in my garden became my teachers.
My succulents yelled, “Pish posh, don’t use those gloves! Feel the dirt. GET DIRTY!”
My lavender told me, “Play with worms. They’re our partners in helping things grow. In fact, they do most of the work!”
My string of hearts said, “Get to know your roots. Some of us need to reach deep into the ground, some need to spread out wide.”
My Pilea whispered, “Be gentle. Just like you, we need tenderness.”
My jade plant taught me my toughest lesson, “Give us our space. Just let us be.”
Every single one of them said to me, “Reach for the light. Bask in it. When we aren’t getting enough light we will grow towards it in order to get what we need. Do the same.”
When our apricot tree died Daniel said, “I suppose it is a bit odd to be growing apricots in Britain.” We left the tree where it died, and planted purple orach, and sunflowers in its big pot. Eventually, it was surrounded by plants growing taller than the tree ever got when it was alive. We cut the branches off, but the skinny stump is still there.
It’s winter now, and the apricot tree is now surrounded by other dead and sleeping plants. I often look at it, and think, it did its best that tree. As we all do.