Gardening ghosts

Both gardens are a mess, untouched for nigh on two years; since Joseph, in fact. I've tried before. The flymo fell to bits when I tried to use it, the strimmer needed it's strim manually resetting every ten-twenty seconds. Really. I timed it to distract myself from wanting to cry.

I don't cry, I do. Tears are of no practical use so they can fuck right fucking off cos, me? I'm busy dealing with things, get outta my way.

Symmetrical pots and baskets of colour now frame the new front door, the borders weeded so the bluebells can thrive, babygirl's sunflower seedlings can grow and absolute order can be displayed to anyone that passes a glance on their way to somewhere more important.

Just don't look round the back. You really don't want to see what's hidden behind the locked gate. Sorry. I'm trying.

Round the back, amongst other things, the window fitters left the old glazing units blocking the path. I moved them to somewhere less troublesome. Still inconvenient but not so glaringly obvious. They were incredibly heavy, it took an age, I was aching and bruised but satisfied. I don't have to leave shit where other people dump it, I can shift it to where it doesn't bother me as much. I love my independent streak. It's what I do.

Such a strong need to be strong. Weakness is a luxury for people with no-one else to look after.

That was the start of six (as yet, this is far from over) days of hard labour, punctuated only by my need for green tea and my children's need for me. I figure why the mo won't fly, realise a new mower isn't much more than the cost of getting it fixed. No waiting time either and I really do need it right now, while the time is right, while I'm right. Purchase it and some new strim, I'll freecycle the old one, ease my landfill conscience if not my overdraft.

I fucking hate when I can define problems but not fix them. I spit my most evil, venomous bile at the false hope, kill it stone dead for it's nasty tormenting. It stops me wanting to cry at it. I don't want to rely on anyone else to fix my breakdowns. I can't trust 'other people' for fucks sake! They say things like '3 weeks wait' and 'sentencing adjourned' and 'minimum charge' and they don't even look at you properly while they say it. Cunts. They can all just piss the piss off, pissily. I'll RTFM and DIY, so pissing there.

Finally, strim. Mow. A high cut so as not to leave it weakened and overexposed.

My emotions want to rip everything out, violently, mercilessly. Instant gratification? Shit, yeah! Bring it on! My intelligence and knowledge restrain me yet again. Remind me that's not the way to long term, low maintenance growth, whisper to me of babies and bathwater. Pull me back into line, push me back onto my knees.

I get to the borders, crawl into the darkness to clear out the undergrowth. Rotting leaves, shells of (now homeless?) snails, weeds, dead wood, all kinds of ick painstakingly cut, pulled or dug out. Nettles that sting my arms and legs growing through brambles with thorns that make my hands bleed even with protective gloves on, the crap fights for its place, it won't come quietly into the rubbish bag.

I'm being so careful and going so slowly but it fucking hurts and stings at every turn and I've started so I can't just leave it. No going back, just an aching back and inching, no, millimetreing forward.

Dig out the dandelion roots from the grass, tidy the edges. Not that it makes the bare patch in the centre look any better, sitting there like a fucking great huge scar where the children's pool was left too long. I've still not decided whether to reseed it or just cover it up with something else. A trampoline, maybe? The kids would like that.

But you can only cover up for so long and even when you do the scar is still there, it's just hidden from those who don't know where to look. And you know how you secretly resent those blinkered, shallow people that can only see surfaces.

I find hidden treasure. The white climbing rose I planted has survived, beyond the love affair I was in at the time. I tie it back, train it up the fence it's now big enough to reach, wanting it to show it's true beauty. Get pricked by thorns again. I sigh, resigned, continue to do what's best for it despite the constant sharp pains and blood.

So beautiful yet so vicious, all I'm trying to do is give you boundaries that will help you grow. I shall call you by my sister's name.

There is honeysuckle everywhere, I gently untangle it from the dead stalks before banishing them, discover the ends are over the fence, in the neighbours garden.

Of course it's made its way out. Why would anything so pretty want to stay in this place of loveless neglect given a growing tip and a choice? The roots may be forced to stay but the head isn't.

That thought stays with me as I rein in the jasmine that waterfalls over the opposite fence and fix it back where I want it, where it can lift me with it's fragrance.

Looking round, exhausted, I note the last few things to be cleared out and allow myself to feel proud of the work I've done. Then wonder what the fuck to do with all this clear space now I've created it. So much work still to do.

I thought it would be over by now. Exorcism is a slow process. I appear to be getting there, I'm just not sure where 'there' is.