10 December 2010
31 July 2010
Blog reader Nancy asked today, in a comment left on a July post about ripe strawberries why I was no longer posting garden updates on the blog, and that she missed them. My answer was brief, to whit: winter. I asked her to come back again in spring.
December, January and February do pose a problem for a blog whose title is the size of the blogger's terrace. What to do? Again, the answer is quite simple: we wait. That is what winter is. And without the wait, and without the emptiness, and without the browning and drying and blowing away, the cold, the frozen pots, the bareness, the shriveled herb leaves, the sticks of fig and rose, without the white pillows of snow, without all this, spring would be nothing. How unbearable, a constant spring awakening, a false rising up, like being awake after a night without sleep; followed by a constant summer lushness, a constant fall blaze of colour.
We need to be empty. We need to go dark, we need to be alone, we need to look at a pause in the landscape. It is the only possible preparation for the excess to come.
The work of the garden, even tiny a one, continues, as leaves are scraped up, stems nipped, branches pruned, and pots emptied, but none of it is particularly photogenic. Until it snows.