I have always felt a connection with the outdoors, to the point where sun can make me smile in the midst of a depression, and by three days of gloomy grey I am beyond tears.
Last year I did nothing with the gardens, weeded some at first and then abandoned them for gardens that belonged to those who couldn’t tend them for themselves.
A garden untended even for a year becomes a jungle. This year, I felt the pull of growing greens and call of soft brown earth again, without the guilt and with the promise of a rainbow in return.
But weather guides the planting and the cold forbid the seeds, and then the heat brought with it threats of burning tender leaves. And me. And the time of perfect planting coincides with other things more urgent such as job and tests and trying to get away.
The backstep is a-planted though and this at least can cheer me up enough and on again to planning more to do. I shall, at least as soon as I can once again wander further out from the center of the home to the perimeters of yard, add color here and there with paintbrush plantings.
I need that for my happiness. I need that for my soul.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology