There is a very big place in my heart reserved by the winter sun. I may complain about it sometimes, but never in the winter, when its gentle glow is deeply felt, and greatly appreciated.
But so too are the nights. Black as tar, every minute detail is amplified by the lens of the cold.
And if you experiment, you can capture that spooky essence which I think our ancestors knew a lot about.
Winter nights are for ghost stories and dark secrets.
They are also full of magic.
When I titled my last post Preparing to Move Indoors, I didn’t think I was being literal… but I guess the old adage is true, you become the things you spend the most time with, so I went dormant. From the outside at least, on the inside… wowsers.
Most winter rituals involve a great deal of plotting and planning – fantasising over seed catalogues and drawing out new areas to be renovated and transformed. I haven’t done that yet this year, and last night I dreamt that hundreds of bulbs suddenly appeared in the garden overnight, and there were purple tulips and bright gold something-or-others trying to push their heads out through carpets of thick frilly weeds, and I woke up thinking, ‘okay garden, I got the message, thanks. I’ll think about you more in the front part of the brain.’
It sends missives and emissaries like this: a cackling magpie to make me glance outside; a particularly loud dawn bird tapping its stubby little beak on my old crumbling window frame; leopard-printed slugs coming up through the kitchen sink. Little passive-aggressive callers from the wild.
You might say I should change my name – that no compulsive gardening has been in evidence over these past months – but that would suggest a rather narrow view of exactly what gardening means… 😉
All Photos by Yamtan for Notes from a Compulsive Gardener
A cool respite from the Summer sun, amongst nature’s weird shapes and wonderful textures.