Take the Time to Waste a Moment

The is a personal note. A gentle nudge. More to myself than anybody else. But it may be relevant to you too. Let’s see.

Hello, my gardening friends,

I was sitting alone, feeling a little reflective, garden list in hand, pondering what to write about next. As you read this, my own patch of earth will have just appeared on national television. On the BBC’s flagship Gardener’s World, no less. My mental health laid bare for all to see. I could write more about that. Or dive into another ‘how to’ or ‘helpful’ guide.

But then, just for a moment, I let myself imagine what a day in the garden might feel like... if I had absolutely nothing to do. Nothing at all.

(Isn’t that odd? A genuine pause.)

Let’s be honest: as gardeners, we’re brilliant at making lists. We’re experts. Gardening is like spinning plates. It always feels like something is on the edge. There’s always something that “needs” tending: deadheading, staking, weeding, watering, sowing, mowing… (the list goes on). But here’s one truth I’ve come to realise, and maybe you have too: if we’re not careful, the garden becomes just another to-do list, another set of jobs to tick-off before the sun goes down.

But what a waste that would be!

Because a garden isn’t just about productivity or the pursuit of perfection. It’s about pleasure. About standing still, without guilt, without shame, soaking up the joy of what we’ve created. Taking the time to waste a moment: to stop, stare, breathe, and simply be. To smell freely. To run your hand across a sun-warmed rose petal, or the soft, silken leaves of a lamb’s ear. To grab a handful of nepeta or rosemary and take a great, greedy, satisfying sniff. To hear the soft shiver of grasses in the breeze, or the bumbling buzz of a bee so close you can feel its vibration in your chest.

The garden offers us a journey, not just a destination. Yes, the work matters, but surely the magic lives in the pauses within the process. Well-earned rest stops along the way. In the cup of tea sipped on your favourite bench. In the sunset glow over the borders you fretted over. In the robin watching you from the spade handle, cocked-head, bold and cheeky.

So here’s my little invitation to you today: take the time to waste a moment, or two, or as many as you wish. Not tomorrow or next weekend. Not after the lawn is mown. Now. Sit. Smell. Touch. Listen. Let the garden remind you why you fell in love with it in the first place. It isn’t perfection. It isn’t ‘likes and follows’. It’s because the garden needs you as much as you need it. It’s because the way it makes you feel. Nurtured, needed, valued, wanted, rewarded… A restorative to cure many ills.

And you know what really struck me, sitting here tonight with The Nature of Daylight looping loudly and mournfully in the background? It’s this:

If I were to leave this world tomorrow, I wouldn’t be thinking, “I wish I’d pruned more.” I wouldn’t be tallying up the number of times I mowed, or regretting that I never got around to planting more dahlias.

No.

I’d be wishing I’d sat more. That I’d listened more. That I’d taken the time to see the beauty right under my nose: the light gilding leaves and blooms at dusk, the blackbird’s last song of the evening, the bees heavy with pollen tumbling home. I’d wish I’d soaked up every last damn second of sun, sky, and birdsong.

The garden isn’t just a space we tend. There’s symbiosis. A space where nature and nurture flows both ways. It has the power to lift our hearts and relieve our minds. It’s there to cradle us when we finally stop rushing, when we let it remind us that we’re part of something bigger and wilder than our myopic to-do lists.

So maybe, just maybe, the most radical, most nourishing thing we can do as gardeners is this:

Put the tools down. Sit in the stillness. And waste a glorious, precious moment.

Sit yourself down, sip something cool, and let your gaze wander over the garden you’ve lovingly made. Cherish. Revel. Celebrate. Listen to the rustle of leaves, the flutter of wings, the soft sigh of the breeze. Feel the grass on your bare feet. Smell deeply, cup a rose in your hands and bury your face in it. Watch the clouds pass overhead, the shadows slide, the plants, the trees, the life you have created. The chores can wait; the lawn will still be there tomorrow with weeds for company.

I know I won’t be remembered for my lawn. I maybe remembered as a gardener that adored his garden. I hope to be remembered as a gardener that chose to seize those quiet moments that he allowed himself to savour.

We should choose wisely, my friend. 🌿

---