Hello garden. I have missed you.

Recovery never arrives with a fanfare. It creeps in gently. One afternoon you just notice something beautiful and it sparks something inside.

Hello you.

It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Before I say anything else, thank you for all the kind messages and comments on my last post (Hello darkness, my old friend), way back when.

I was genuinely touched. Truly. Thank you for waiting patiently here for me.

How was your winter? I hope you’re doing okay. Personally, I feel like a remarkably grumpy post-hibernation bear, blinking into weak sunlight and wondering whether I should simply roll over and sleep for another month or two.

The truth is, the past few months have been rough. A prolonged depressive episode that settled in like a bad smell and refused to leave. And when it finally lifted, influenza A and double pneumonia arrived right on cue, just in time for Santa. Oh what fun.

Thankfully, a juicy dose intravenous antibiotics and the most complete rest (I have ever been ordered to endure) did their job. I am not quite back to my full strength gardening machine yet, but perhaps ninety-five percent, which feels miraculous enough. A little lingering fatigue, but getting there.

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A soggy start

I had so many plans for autumn. Moving this. Dividing that. Pruning those. Repairing everything else. All quietly abandoned somewhere in the brain fog. So now I find myself playing catch-up, fidgety with cabin fever while the winter deluge refuses to relent.

Maybe I should go back to my slumber?

Here in England it has been relentlessly wet, the wettest start to a year in a century. Gardening has happened only in brief windows between downpours. Thankfully we sit on a hill, well away from flooding. The surrounding fields look more like marshland, and my heart breaks for those wading through flooded homes and waterlogged gardens.

One unexpected but reassuring comfort has been the no-dig beds and borders. The soil remains firm enough to walk on yet beautifully absorbent, alive with billions of organisms quietly doing the aeration work beneath my feet. In weather like this, it feels like a small triumph.

So what gardening have I actually managed?

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Slowly. Slowly. Very slowly.

I hadn’t touched the garden (properly) since October. I know. The horror. The shame. But as my psychologist reminds me, with bipolar there will always be downtimes, even when you are popping the pills, living healthy, and doing everything else right.

But enough of that. Let us talk about the garden, because saying those words again feels like opening a window to feel the sunshine warming my cheeks. (Oi. I mean the ones on my face. Filthy.)

Recovery did not arrive with a fanfare. It crept in gently. One afternoon I simply noticed the winter light. Low and soft, gilding papery hydrangea heads, catching the luminous green bark of a Japanese maple, turning miscanthus radiant silver and dogwoods into flames.

It had been a long time since I thought: that is beautiful. Followed quickly by another thought: I miss my garden.

And that was the turning point.

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Catharsis

Cleaning and clearing always comes first. It’s cathartic. Small moves, achievable steps. Gentle momentum.

The first task was small. Removing scruffy pots from the terrace, clearing away dahlias and withered annuals. The dahlia tubers have spent winter in soggy compost, so perhaps they will return, perhaps not. Dahlias have surprised me before. One year I threw supposedly dead tubers onto the compost heap only to see them rise again like botanical phoenixes.

Next came the stiff broom (once I’d unearthed it) and the power washer. The terrace had disappeared beneath a slippery blanket of soggy leaves and a blizzard of silver birch seeds. Knackered but satisfied, I stood back and felt that familiar flicker of accomplishment. Dopamine returning, quietly but unmistakably.

(Ibuprofen on standby.)

By late winter the Hakon grasses begin to shed their brown blades. Normally I am careful and methodical, secateurs in hand. This time, after checking for overwintering wildlife, I embraced speed and gleeful abandon with sharp shears. Swift, effective, and deeply satisfying.

Then the Flower Garden path demanded attention. Thorny rose canes, collapsed grasses, and sprawling perennials had turned it into an obstacle course requiring both bravery and protective headgear. Rose thorns hooking into your scalp are really no fun at all.

Usually I wait until March for the Big Garden Cutback, but I needed to garden more than I needed perfection and patience. Working gently, I relocated hundreds of ladybirds into sheltering yew topiary before clearing away the worst of the decay. Mushy material went into open bags so hidden residents could escape when warmth returned. Twiggy stems were stacked in a quiet corner - again to allow those little critters to vacate.

Standing on the steps afterwards, looking at a clear path again, I felt oddly emotional. Progress. Achievement. Reconnection. A garden revealed.

Although I maintain a gym routine (essential for my mental health), gardening uses muscles in a very particular way - the Principal of Specificity. Bent over for hours at a time. Twisting and contorting. Thankfully, the body remembers this quickly, although each hamstring fibre and every lower back muscle politely reminded me of their existence the following day.

(Where is that ibuprofen?)

The next dry spell brought rose pruning. English shrub roses first, met with Japanese steel and cautious optimism. Seeing those leaf buds swelling is so heartening. Dead wood removed, height reduced, shape balanced. Nicely done.

(Roses, of course, will do exactly as they please, regardless of how you want them to grow.)

Over the following days, ducking between showers, I worked through the rest of the garden and all the shrub roses. With each session I felt more present. More connected. More like myself.

Now, when the sun appears, I can see hellebores, snowdrops and crocus from the kitchen window. Bright red peony shoots nosing through. Daffodils beginning their quiet fanfare. Life returning in small, steady increments of joy.

The Kitchen Garden still looks rather sorry for itself. Rotting boards need replacing. The overwintered leeks collapsed thanks to allium leaf miner. But even there, a few hours with a daisy grubber and hand fork transformed a blanket of weeds into order. A top up of enriching homemade compost and they’ll be good to go for another season. Perhaps with some hasty repairs.

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So here we are. Caught up.

And what now for us? For this quiet little space on Substack (and perhaps Instagram)? Well, this last episode forced a considered rethink. A psychologist-approved course correction, if you like.

I will continue writing here, but without the strict self-imposed schedules. I want to write when there is something genuinely worth sharing, something simply lovely, or something I have learned - tales from the garden with a literary flourish. Like the garden, I want to take pleasure in my writing efforts.

I think it’s fair to say that my experiment as a gardening content creator has reached a natural conclusion. I do not enjoy being in front of the camera. In fact, I hate it. I spent half my adult life safely invisible behind the lens, and that is where I feel most at home. There is no advantage (I can think of) that outweighs the heavy cost on my mental health.

When gardening begins to feel like performance rather than refuge, something has gone terribly wrong. Commoditising my gardening robbed me of a simple yet powerful sense of enjoyment.

I need gardening in every sense. It is my sanctuary, my pressure valve, my quiet place to simply potter and exist.

All I want now is to keep learning and creating something beautiful and I would love to have your company here. Here’s hoping you’ll join me for another meandering stroll along this quiet leafy lane.

Your gardening chum,

Elliott 🌿