My not-so-secret garden

My garden saved my life.

Really, it did.

As I've discussed a few times on this blog, this year has been Marianne's Mental Health Year. After a decade (or more, let's just be honest) of avoidance, I decided to give up the internal battle and discuss my deepest insecurities and shame with a fantastic cognitive psychologist named Dr. Friday. (Doesn't he sound like a comic book character?) Therapy, definitely, has saved my life.

But my garden has, too. Investing a lot of time and physical effort and psychic energy in PLANTS can really help one work through anxiety and depression. And while therapy is amazing, the intensity of each session can often leave one...at loose ends for a day or two. Work--mindless work--is the best solution.

So, in April, I built and planted a garden from scratch in my teeny tiny Southside back yard. I ripped up about fifty years' worth of weeds and sod and garbage, added some new soil, installed a weed barrier, and stuck A LOT of baby plants in the ground. In the process, I also discovered and uncovered an old brick patio that had been neglected for so long that it had completely disappeared beneath three to five inches of weeds and soil.

I wasn't really sure if the plants would live. After all, the soil around my house has probably been contaminated by years of soot from the steel mill that used to be two blocks away. And, I've never really gardened on my own before: I used to "help" my grandparents with their gardens, but that was years ago. Still, I went out to check on the plants every day, watered them, fertilized them, pruned them, and they grew. And grew. And grew.

To be honest, I have been pretty obsessed with my garden all summer, and I pour a lot of emotional energy into it. I even blush a little when friends and neighbors compliment it. It's a big accomplishment for me, and I actually take pride in it.

Taking pride in something I've created is a novel concept for me. As Dr. Friday has forced me to admit, I have always regarded my creations as inadequate, and therefore, I've been a bit ashamed of them. In fact, when I have found myself in a particularly forceful fury of perfectionism, my projects and their "glaring" faults seem to exemplify my inadequacies as a person.

This is why I'm in therapy.

But my garden (and Dr. Friday, of course) has changed this unfortunate negative thought pattern. And, in celebration of newfound self-esteem, I've posted photos of the garden as it has evolved through the summer and into fall.

In case you're interested, the back flower bed includes Siberian iris, osteospermum, "dusty miller," "hens and chicks," marigolds, and Scottish moss. The side herb gardens include basil (purple and green), dill, cilantro, rosemary, oregano, and a monstrous grape tomato plant. The front gardens consist solely of French lavender bushes and double petunias.

BTW: After three frosts, most of the plants are still thriving. Also, I'm in the process of planting spring-blooming bulbs: tulips, daffodils, and hyacinths (in memory of Eliot's "the hyacinth girl"). The tulips--tall purple and dwarf orange--have been planted in the front beds; the daffodils and hyacinths will be planted in the back.