My Garden Therapy
by Cecily Lynch--
An ironic personal account
‘Annihilating all that’s made
To a green thought in a green shade’
from ‘The Garden’, by Andrew Marvel, a famous English 17th century poet
Before Covid struck I considered gardening to be the last resort of the elderly and infirm. Apres Covid, I am enchanted by the pleasures both mental and physical provided by the care of my garden.
This conversion came about by the awareness that the garden needed me. Weeds were becoming waist-high and were smothering the roses.
Tired, and out-of sorts after the tedium of cocooning, I set to with a will. I hacked and raked, bending and stretching, digging and planting. I felt just wonderful after all the exercise in the fresh air and enjoyed my dinner afterwards, my usual modest meal of salads tasting like a feast for a king.
The very next day I noticed that my mind was calming as I chopped bushes, pruned roses and rolled the lawnmower. I had become reflective and thoughtful instead of being worried and restless. My cardiacan rhythm was settling down too. I was beginning to sleep soundly and peacefully.
I had found my vocation at last!
I was anxious to rejoin my friends and did so through visiting their gardens. I visited three gardens in the neighbourhood. The three gardens were very different in design and atmosphere.
The first was immaculately tended, not a blade of grass out of place; flowers planted in rows, lawn borders carefully tended. The owner was a professional gardener. This garden was of too high a standard to be maintained by one poor woman like me.
The second garden lay at the end of a tree-lined avenue. The lawn sloped down to a walled area where a poly tunnel and glasshouse contained pots and pots of herbs and fruit. This beautiful old manor house estate had been the summer residence of Lord Leicester of London. This beautiful place was too noble for my modest means.
The third was my ideal garden, secluded, bordered by trees, rustling branches and birdsong, hydrangea, a three-tiered fountain, Grecian vases, a garden table set for tea; all were charming and harmonious. In the valley below, the river Lee flowed broad and brown, dividing in two the sweet city of Cork.
I had found an extension to my vocation of gardener: it was to become a Reviewer of Gardens; and I look forward to spending the rest of my life as an honorary guest in the Pleasure Gardens of Cork.