Green thoughts

When I was growing up, my main involvement with the garden was weeding, a task which I generally had to do squatting in the dirt, in the hot sun, when I would rather have been sitting on the porch, in the shade, with a library book. Needless to say, I did not become enamored of gardening as a pastime.

One of my closest friends assured me, years ago, that owning a garden of my own would change all that. My loathing would turn to proprietary interest and a desire to lavish TLC upon my own little patch of earth. I have yet to test this theory personally as, despite my advanced adulthood, I do not own a house. I had thought wistfully about trying my hand at gardening in one of the various places we have rented, but somehow I never got around to it. In hindsight, I think it was a combination of discouraging weather (England), and the perpetually unsettled feeling of our peripatetic lifestyle (wherever). If I wasn’t preparing for the next looming trip overseas, DP and I were contemplating job prospects (his) in another city, or another country, or another hemisphere. I couldn’t even commit to making a sourdough starter, let alone planting a garden.

Then, after the most unsettled year so far—at one point back in May it could have gone either way as to whether we’d even be coming to Australia, or moving back to England—we arrived in Canberra in time for the start of Australian spring. We settled in, unpacked our boxes, got our bearings. We got used to the idea that, although we won’t be here forever, we’ll be settled in one place for a couple of years. And I planted a little garden in containers on our balcony. (All food, of course—vegetables and herbs.)

My first plants—cucumbers—have sprouted. It’s enough to bring a tear to your eye. But even better is that, from what I hear, container gardeners require almost no weeding.

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