Iona Winter

I’m pretty sure that some people thought I was running away, leaving the city and moving to the wop-wops. Maybe I was on a level. BUT I’ve escaped things that I’ll never miss, here’s a few to illustrate my point: traffic, pollution, mega-high rents, increasing rates of violence, and (generally speaking) other people’s dramas. Yeah, those things.

Thanks to technology, I’ve retained my relationships with the people I care about. PLUS I’ve gained the most amazing environment to finish my thesis (aka ‘The Novel’) in. Five weeks (and yes I’m counting) until hand-in.

I could liken this to compost-making. Layers of discarded, redundant, unusable things, are mixed with important things like water, sunshine, and garbage-eating bugs. The best thing about this is that something densely rich is produced—perfect for growing new things in. Some people might call me philosophical.

Yesterday, sun out, birds tweeting and hens clucking I headed into my glasshouse. There, a wonderful smorgasbord of seedlings greeted me. I spent hours thinning tender shoots, dividing them into new pots and thinking of who I’d like to gift them to. There are far too many for my garden. PLUS I don’t have any fantasies about becoming a market-gardener (trust me, that would be a step too far). I admired my patience.

The thing which stuck me most (while in said glasshouse) were the sounds. Other than my breathing, the straw beneath my feet popped, like breakfast cereal with milk poured on it. The wind rattled the glass panels, like an old house. My hands in the potting mix scooped, scrunched and patted, like someone making a sandcastle. An aural feast. Ah yeah, BUT then I heard my voice. I spoke to the seedlings. Each one.

I suppose I worry (just a little bit) what someone might think, if they overheard me talking to the plants. Yeah, okay, they’d probably think I was bonkers. You know what though, I don’t really care. Talking to the chooks seems socially acceptable—so why not the plants?

I’m sure I can reign myself in when people come to visit. BUT if the day ever comes, where I can’t silence my dialogue with the plants (in the presence of others), I hope someone will have the common sense to ask if I’m okay. You know, like really okay.

I took a risk last night and mentioned this seedling-dialogue to someone. They asked me if I was taking drugs. NO, I replied. Then they said, maybe I should try some. I’m not sure what they meant really. I’ll have to ponder that. Maybe I could ask the plants!