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6 Years Sober and Rewilding
Reflections on consciousness, newts, gardening and sobriety
Last week I was six years sober, and I didn’t even write about it. Yet. Because I can’t stop gardening.
Lately, I’ve been spending every spare moment in the garden. Is this procrastination? I’m on the second draft of my third novel, after all, and have hopes of finishing it this year. And yet, every day, I find my head full of questions about plants and biodiversity.
Will cucumber grow with corn or does it prefer sunflowers? How do you take cuttings from verbena bonariensis? Buddleia?
So far I have made raised beds and broadcast wildflower seeds, and planted a native mixed hedge. I dream of having a table at the edge of the garden with an honesty box and all of the extra plants I’ve raised in the process of making our garden. A greenhouse and potting benches, full of the things I don’t have room for now (my partner is already bemused by the number of seedlings on our sunny windowsills).
I love writing, but dreaming up novels feels so much more arduous than dreaming up veg gardens and wildlife habitat. Instead of working out the secret motivations of a third-tier character (someone please tell me, what does Giles want?) I find myself reading up about companion planting.
