CONFESSIONS OF A GARDENING ADDICT

I'm addicted to gardening.  I want to be an addict in my back (and front and side) yard forever.  Gardening is my adult sandbox; it helps me maintain my sanity.  No gardening, no me.

Given that I live in New England, the affliction gets almost unbearable each spring.  The lure of annuals and perennials is relentless each May, June, and July, and I find myself driving to as many nurseries as I can possibly find, on weekends and in between client appointments, to indulge in the goods.  I even hide credit card receipts.   

Why? Because gardening makes me feel free.  My fingernails get dirty, and my right-brain gets a workout, which is a big deal given that my boring, left-brain does all the work in the office.  

Plus, the results are glorious.  For five months, my world is in technicolor, and I feel like a champ.   

It's my final reprieve before each cold, dreary winter, and a rebirth at winter's end. Gardening provides a rhythm to life, and renewed hope that life will go on. 

I hate to admit it, but the plants in my garden are my friends.  I can't wait for their tender, green heads to pop up each spring, and I grieve when they wither in the fall.  I remember when I planted each one, and often, why.  Some denote birthdays and anniversaries, and at least a few bookmark the birth of a new grandchild.  The official name for such thinking is "Anthropomorphism," but most people would just call it a sickness.  If so, I hope I'm ill forever.  

My gardening advice is simple.  Pick up a brochure from White Flower Farm.  Get to know your weather "zone."  Educate yourself about plant heights and bloom time.  Then get your hands in the dirt and together with the earthworms (which by the way are a sign of healthy soil), turn the ordinary soil into an extraordinary rainbow of color.  Just for fun.

gardening