This morning, I stood in the garden trying to scrawl a list of jobs on the back of a seed packet. I’m going away for a couple of days and have got a house sitter coming to take care of the ark while I’m gone. I’ve realised that even getting her to do the basics will take up more time than I’ve promised, and much what of what I do is based on instinct. How do I explain “looking a bit sad but don’t overwater” in precise language? Is it polite to ask her to do a quick weed of the big bed or is that overstepping? I’ve realised the list is getting out of control when I run out of space and make more notes on my arm. I’m so worried about leaving my garden during the proposed heatwave that I’ve considered cancelling the trip.
It’s more than that though, I’m grumpy and overwhelmed.
I always get a touch morose at this time of year. Despite the light mornings and late nights, midsummer elicits a darkness in the corner of my eye, a tickling at the back of my mind, an ancient suggestion of sand slipping through the hourglass.
The light is already starting to ebb away, even though summer has only just rolled up its sleeves and begun to put the work in. I haven’t even got sick of ice cream yet. (Although I never really get sick of ice cream, which is why I’m built for comfort not speed.)
I find autumn especially gruelling and by the time the swallows leave, I’m desolate. My heart flies off with them on their gossamer wings and around Midsummer’s Day, I get a melancholic prelude of winter glumness, a very Dylan Thomas-ish “Rage against the dying of the light”.
It’s just a flash and only lasts a day or so but it’s a foreshadowing of the dark days to come.
There is a magic around midsummer, but with all old festival times, magic comes hand-in-hand with chaos. A sense of an unravelling, untamed wildness that occurs at this time of the year. That old genius, Shakespeare hinted at it in Midsummer Night’s Dream as Puck says:
“Now it is that time of night
That the graves all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his sprite,
In the church-way paths to glide.”
Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act V, scene I
There is an edge to this day: beautiful midsummer, when the sun is at its peak, is the moment where we begin our descent into winter. We are trip trapping through BBQ season to harvest and then the decay of autumn. The smell of rot is almost in our nostrils.
I think a dash of this is genetic. I remember my mother shutting down in late autumn, her body seeming to deflate at the thought of the winter to come. In my youthful folly, I thought this was a ridiculous over-reaction but as I’ve got older, I understand the dread at slogging through yet another winter. The darkness, wind and rain can almost seem endless.
Part of this has been sparked by my never-ending to-do list. Midsummer is so busy, the sweet peas need constant attention (but oh the smell is bottled heaven, and so worth it), deadheading roses, tieing up lupins, watering everything, the list is endless. And this year, the warm wet weather has meant the weeding is at an elite level. I feel as though I’m fighting a stealthy foe that is dedicated to nothing short of complete garden dominance. I can’t seem to stop and take a breath.
But what of Midsummer Night itself? Shakespeare built on old traditions, common in folklore, that the night of midsummer is when spirits abound and the veil is thin. The chaos of quarrelling fairies causes devastation, crops fail and livestock are diseased. There is an imbalance because nature, always a chaotic force, is at its strongest and is unsteadied by man.
In the pagan tradition, Beltane gives way to Litha, midsummer, when early summer reaches its height. Litha is the sun at its zenith, but is also a precipice, which then tumbles into Lughnasadh, the harvest. At this moment, everything is speeding up and is almost out of control.
Perhaps, this is why I feel so exhausted by my own garden. Nature is at its most potent and I am struggling to contain it. There is so much to do and sow, in fact this is always the week when I sow my biennials as well, ready for next spring. It seemed like a good idea when I was buying the seeds, but now planting another tray seems almost too much. Exhaustion and overwhelm taint the sunny days.
I’m trying to buck the sadness this year with additions to my little ark, a pair of spring-born chicks to add to my flock of hens. They are the most adorable Lavender Ameraucana chicks. They look like little rainclouds and seem utterly furious at everything. As a nod to the time of year, I have called them Cobweb and Mustardseed and have spent more hours than I like to admit, watching them cluck about and discover the world. There is something enormously hopeful about new life.
So I will sow my foxgloves, sweet william and lunaria for next year and watch my new chickens and try not to give in to the darkness that drags slightly at my heart. I will ignore the fairies who are making my garden run wild and instead try to embrace the anarchy. Maybe it is my fault for trying to control forces that are beyond me, I should learn to enjoy the ride. Nothing is permanent and as the wheel of time turns another season will take its place. I am only exhausting myself trying to overrule nature at its most formidable.
I have torn up the list for house sitter and just asked her to generally try to keep things alive. In fact, I’ve encouraged her to just enjoy the garden and the animals and even pick some flowers if she fancies it. Perhaps, I should give myself the same advice.
After all, as Puck says “Lord what fools these mortals be!” and I for one, have to agree.
They do look like furious little rain clouds!
You’re not alone in having the glums as the year sort of slides away and the fairies cause garden chaos - it’s hard to keep on top of it all. A few days away sounds marvellous - hope it’s somewhere lovely! Xx