In the bleak midwinter
By Andrew Patching
"In the midst of this all-embracing, virtual and constantly streaming, updating, socially interactive, internet connectivity pervading all the time and space of our lives, there is something. And it is present with you and you are present with it, wherever you are."
The beauty of gardening, of growing, of growing anything, be it vegetables, fruit, flowers or anything at all really is – the real beauty of it, is often missed. It is missed because it is easy to miss and missed out in the first place.
It is the middle of January and as I look out of the window it is cold and wet and uninviting. The universe can be very uninviting sometimes. Quite frankly, I would rather carry on sitting in the dry and the warm than go out there and do anything. Digging, growing vegetables, fresh air and exercise, food production, the science, the future of the planet, they can all take a back seat today. Pretty soon it will be dark anyway, the sky is already closing in and the days so short, why even bother?
The dog has the top half of the garden, although he won't go out. I've got the bottom half beyond the fence, which I put up before digging up the rest of the lawn last January. There's a compost bin in each corner. What look like snow covered bushes today are purple and white sprouting broccoli. I am always amazed at how much food a small patch of earth can produce, even in the bleak midwinter.
But I go. Why do I go? Maybe just to have a look. A closer look. Has anything died, has anything been eaten by slugs, by birds, by mice? Has anything succumbed to disease? Has anything actually grown yet? Is there even anything still left to eat out there in that muddy, rain soaked patch of ground, battered flat by wind and frost and rain and snow? Probably not.
But the thing is, it is there. It hasn’t been built on, paved over or buried under concrete just yet. And I go because it is there. Still there. It is always there. It is real. It is solid, hard, soft, material, immaterial, a something. A something to relate to. A something you have to relate to once you have committed yourself to growing your own.
Without you realising it, that patch of ground out there has become your lifelong companion. You might not think it, but it is as if you are married. You have each other. And you are no longer free. Not exactly. You have entered into a lifelong relationship with something you might hardly have even looked at or thought about before. Oh, you can say to yourself, “Maybe I’ll just do it for a year or grow a couple of things and then see...” You can say, “I can stop whenever I like and do something else if I want to!” or, “Who knows, something else more important or exciting might come along. A new hobby, a different interest...” maybe.
Read anything about gardening, growing, watch any programme about it and they will all tell you: There’s lots you can do in the garden and the allotment throughout the winter. Lots of jobs need doing, really useful and important jobs need to be done. Yes, there is, yes there is. But at the same time, they all lie to you, because they all miss something. They all miss something in the same way a self help book on positive thinking can miss the true reality and meaning of sorrow, of sadness and loss when feeling pain, like the death of a friend or someone close, or whatever it happens to be that touches you deeply in that dark wintery place where you might be right now.
Outside, under the dark grey sky, in the wet and the cold, where the chill wind catches the back of your neck and the feet of small animals have indented the mud and the birds have pulled up the bulbs and left them lying around naked and exposed, there really isn’t anything to smile for. Nothing to feel cheerful or positive about, nothing to delight in.
But still there is something. There is some beauty in all of this. It is easy to miss. Don’t miss it. In the midst of this all-embracing, virtual and constantly streaming, updating, socially interactive, internet connectivity pervading all the time and space of our lives, there is something. And it is present with you and you are present with it, wherever you are.
Never mind if there is nothing left to eat, or if nothing grows. Never mind if the slugs and the birds and the mice and the wind and the rain and the snow and the cold have taken their toll on all but the toughest of leaves. Never mind having to get on with the burden you find you have suddenly landed yourself with.
Together, here you are, the union of this cold, wet, muddy patch of ground beneath the darkening grey sky. That in itself is a gift, a blessing. The gift of life and of living. It is real. That alone, is its beauty. And before all the thoughts about getting on and doing rush in and take over your mind, stand for a moment. Appreciate this gift and this beauty. It is not nothing. That blank page in the diary? Means everything.
The land cress sits quietly in a sheltered spot, hopefully all winter, nothing seems to trouble it. A couple of dozen leaves will add some peppery warmth and flavour to a beetroot salad, of which there are still a couple left in the ground. I know now what to grow more of for next winter. They make lovely borscht of course, but also really nice grated raw in a winter salad with olive oil, balsamic vinegar and a bit of garlic.
One of the swede will be really nice added to some creamy mashed potatoes, non dairy spread, soya milk, black pepper. Only a few of the smaller ones left now. Broad beans, just sown, to their right. Experimenting, I'm worried now they'll get off to a slow start and regretting not having sown them last autumn instead, we'll see... Left of the swede, a few salsify. They should happily sit there through the winter. The weeds can wait too. Then left, what remains of the chard. Beyond them, top, some celeriac. As well as soup, also nice grated raw in a salad. I'll try some in a coleslaw. Beyond them, perpetual spinach, has never stopped providing leaves, a real winter staple. Top left, hiding from the pigeons under netting is the last cabbage. Some Babbington leek bulbils and garlic corms have already gone into the space the cabbages occupied.