I have often lamented my inability to garden. It seems like people around me are able, with a minimum of effort, to produce gardens in front of their homes that are pleasing to look at. My first attempt at a garden went something like this:
I dug out all the weeds and some were really hard to get out. I was quite proud of conquering those “difficult” ones until my neighbour told me I’d just dug out the roots to all the hostas. I put some of those back, unsure what they even were but convinced enough by her horror that they were worthy plants to have. I then got ready to plant the package of seeds I had earlier purchased. I can’t remember what they were exactly, other than that they were a mix of supposedly hearty wild flowers. They could, I was ensured, thrive on neglect. Just the thing for me.
After planting, I began to boast to people about my soon-to-be-garden. “It’s going to be a symphony of colour!” I exclaimed. I could hardly wait for it to burst into bloom. And then… nothing happened. Not a single flower grew. Just dirt. And weeds. Oh, and the hostas that I’d so unceremoniously dug up and re-planted. So instead, I admired my neighbours’ gardens and tried to ignore my own patch of sorry-looking dirt.
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