What grows after disturbance

Last year, in the wild winds and rain, a fence structure fell on a small area of garden. It had been standing for over 30 years. Somehow it didn’t damage anything, despite falling near glass and metal structures, but it created a patch of ground which was left untended for a while. After breaking up the fence panels and standing them undercover to dry I watched that area, the damaged plants beginning to perk up after their crushing, like tiny broken arms reaching up towards a much more open sky.

I watched that area of ground for a while. Just observed it in sunshine and in the driving rain. I arranged to have it dug over and a new fence put up. I spent hours painting that fence, wondering whether the green I had chosen would have been approved by my parents or my neighbours then realising that now it is just me who decides; freedom can be a spacious and constraining space to be in, thoughts can continue in circles, stalling any progress.

Slowly, very slowly, I decided what I might start to put in that space. A rose remained but soon baby clematis and hydrangea and echinacea were planted, carefully chosen and placed in threes, as nature intended.

A lot must have happened under that ground.

It was the beginnings of something small, something that would take years to establish - seasons of growth and fading and re-rooting, repeated over and over until those observing the patch of ground were satisfied. They were so pretty coming up - tiny little shoots, that I had to tell apart from the weeds, wondering why I was pulling up some plants that had tried so hard to survive and yet others I spent time encouraging to grow.

I wondered why I was making those decisions? Was I following what was expected? Was I acting from my gut or my heart?

I loved that patch of ground the first year - it was so new and tiny and had little flowers showing me glimpses of the show I might see with years of patience. And then. One day a new, quite sturdy little plant appeared, completely out of place and never seen before. I left that plant and it grew. I watered it and the roots it had formed started to make great leaves above the surface. Leaves and stems and finally the drooping heads of something I recognised. A poppy. A poppy appeared from somewhere never seen before, never ready to be seen above the surface in over 30 years and yet now, after the ground had been turned over and plants before it destroyed by the falling of that enormous structure, a small, delicate little flower grew and formed seeds. Perhaps it was getting ready to grow there again one day?

I thought a lot about my late father when I saw that poppy, of the stories he told me about how poppies grew at the Somme after all the fighting and destruction. How delicate and reflective they are. And then I thought of myself, of my own journey and the unravelling that I had experienced. I realised that I had needed to lay dormant for a while. I can see now that I was never still; I might have been quiet and forming strong roots under the surface but I was busy, like that poppy, waiting for the time to be right to burst out and put my face towards the sun.