Am really loving being in Balymoney with my Mum. One enters a bubble universe in which the
garden is the centre of everything.
Garden centres become havens of flowers and soil, which are then
replanted in bigger pots, or shady spots perfect for their growth. My mother is frustrated at how pot bound
plants from the garden centre are, roots entangled and repeatedly shows me a
victim, tangled roots almost bare of soil as if demonstrating a torture victim
for crimes against humanity.
She takes
these cramped life forms and frees them, water, fresh soil are lavished and
then she monitors their progress. Such
kindness is only for a certain time. If, after all due care has been shown, a
plant does not thrive she makes a call and they get short thrift. The plants seem to sense they live on the
line and put incredible effort into growth and petals.
I myself have no interest in plant life and routinely kill
everything that comes into my sphere.
Not deliberately but by total neglect – even watering. But living in my Mum’s universe I begin to
see the nurturing that is going on every day in a spiritual vein. All is done to create growth to encourage
progress and much effort expended to this end.
Combined with a rigorous monitoring and checking of leaves, soil for new
shoots. Infestations are fought tooth
and nail, and minor discolouration of leaves is a major cause of concern. Even tiny progress is celebrated and the
previous wilting specimen that perks up is congratulated and smugly appreciated.
