Sorry, am I late?

On impatience & gardening

Here’s the thing. I know that it is too early for my bulbs to bloom. I know that. In my rational mind, I understand than when it says on the packet that Narcissus ‘Minnow’ will flower in “March/April” it means ‘do not expect flowers for another several weeks, it is only 17 February’.

But here’s the other thing, why is nothing happening in my garden?

Gardening is meditative. There’s no question about that. If you didn’t want to take my word for it there are many, many studies that show - empirically - that gardening is a calming, nurturing activity, good for the mind, soul and body.

For a comprehensive read on how, scientifically speaking, gardening is the best thing in the world, I recommend ‘The Well Gardened Mind: Rediscovering Nature in the Modern World’ by Sue Stuart-Smith. I know, I’ve recommended it before but it really is excellent. An eminently readable, partly-autobiographical tour through the absolutely undeniable, broad, and global evidence-base for being pro-gardening. Nothing ‘woo-woo’ here. Real data.

But gardening is also agitating. This has received less coverage. Why, for example, does it seem like my spring bulbs have ceased growing at the critical moment?

Banks of municipal daffodils are putting on growth around the bus stop on Queenstown Road, and yet the pots in my garden seem as immovable as a 4-year-old who does not want to put on their shoes. It is unreasonable and so annoying.

The 1,000 tulip bulbs? Nothing doing. And while it would be a terrifying indicator of climate change to have them bloom in February, nonetheless it feels like they’re running late.

Rationally I know that whether narcissus, iris or tulip, there are ‘early’, ‘middle’ and ‘late’ flowering varieties and that I have planted some of all of these. And yet I spent much of the weekend standing over my pots cursing their sluggishness (not out loud. In her book, ‘I Haven’t Been Entirely Honest with You’, Miranda Hart says that she spoke kindly to one bluebell bulb and harshly to another and that the latter shrivelled under the cruel treatment while the other flourished and bloomed, so I’m careful to only speak harshly out of earshot).

While in June we will be wafting around our burgeoning plots, gently scooping up roses between our fingers to admire and sniff, thrilling at the sight of such fecundity all around, in February (I can’t be alone in this) the journey through the garden is a stiff march along the line, inspecting the troops, and finding that none have polished their boots. I mean come on, lads. For God’s SAKE.

What I should be doing is planting seeds. I have a whole list of seeds to plant and aside from the sweet peas I have sown nothing. I think I will go today to pick up some vermiculite, and then there will be no excuse. And the sight of a single sprouted seed in a loo roll will be sufficient to tide me over for a couple of days. A little hope in a bog roll.

I think it is an issue of spring feeling so close, and yet so far away. A nose pressed against the window of time. Today it is bright blue skies and freezing cold in London. A sort of ‘tickle and punch’ weather. The promise of spring is all around, Chaenomeles blossoms popping like beautiful blisters on branches through Battersea Park and - of course - the snowdrops. But mostly the trees are still bare, and the wind still bites at the uncovered ears.

I ought to disclose that my particular impatience is both clinically-proven and genetic. For I am one of the increasing number of late-in-life-diagnosed people with ADHD. Did you know that ADHD is more heritable than height? I read that somewhere. But not only did I inherit my parents’ diminutive stature (five foot two and a half, thank you), I also inherited their brain wiring. Both died long before ADHD was really understood, but being an over-confident, amateur psychiatrist I can see obvious traits in both, especially my father.

This particular facet of my inheritance had me at the garden centre last week buying a pot of Iris Reticulata ‘Katharine Hodgkin’. I read Jo Thompson’s piece on Iris Reticulata, and lost it. Despite having some ‘Harmony’ already in a pot outside, impatience overwhelmed me so I drove the ten minutes, and parted with the precious (and wildly overpriced) £3.99, brought them home and put them under the grow light in my kitchen. It is a good thing that another facet of my inheritance was some money.

‘Katherine Hodgkin’ flowered after less than two days under the grow light. But I knew it was cheating. The bulbs I planted three months ago will flower eventually and these will be worth more to me for the waiting. But then waiting is unbearable. Unbearable. I felt like a cheating spouse and, in the end, gave the ‘Katherine Hodgkin’ to my neighbour as a Valentine’s gift so that I did not have to live with the guilt of my infidelity to good and patient ‘Harmony’.

February is dire. A time of torture for the tortured soul. A time for poets. A favourite writer of mine since my teens turns out to be writing here on Substack. Margaret Atwood, can you believe it? What a heroine. At 85 still adapting to new ways of putting out work. Is that very patronising? I don’t mean it to be. I am genuinely in awe of her. Her poem ‘February’ speaks to my soul this frigid month:

February, month of despair,

with a skewered heart in the centre.

But please read the whole thing. It is perfect. Though it hits a little close to home. “It’s all about sex and territory / which are what will finish us off / in the long run”.

Perhaps it is the news that, as much as any innate neuro-misfiring, has caused this desperate, desperate impatience for flowers. The yellow of daffodils and the blue of muscari should bring to mind thoughts of Ukraine anyway, but who could not think of those people on the front lines, their families at home, their heating and electricity used as weapons of war, shivering in the gloom of February, violence, and betrayal. What hope is there? Only whatever slow growth is taking place in the garden.