Post the renovation of the front of my house, and with the removal of the lattice that lined the front brick fence, attention immediately was drawn to the landscape, the garden, and how it sat around the house.
The existing botanicals suggested continuing a colour scheme of pinks and mauves, the magnolia and hardenbergera were joined by violets and pink primula, a pink diosma and a rock heather plant. I was at a neighbour’s house four doors up the street; having sold, she was moving out and a young gay man who was the successful bidder at auction was looking over the place. I introduced myself as being from the house with the pink tree. Gay humour.
Nights of waking at three am, already planning the manoeuvres of the next day had a certain impetus: in one day I transplanted a Japanese maple to the front right hand corner, moved a pot of mother in law tongue to the back, unpotted two mature cycads and gave them a cool dirt bed, likewise a red-variegated maranta. The impetus escalated to re-examining the huge, overgrown pots of bromeliads. They surely needed thinning at the very least, and most of them demanded to be ditched, for the green waste people to collect.
Finally, the backyard had resolved itself into a lower landscape, mostly planted in the ground rather than potted, spaced comfortably rather than massed like blots on the horizon. The contours of the yard reasserted themselves, order was restored.
The yard still has areas that look wooded or bushy, but breathably so. Slovenian woods are like this, trees and bushes clumped together delivering dappled shade but never too crowded and jostling. All the while I was listening to JS Bach and Mozart on my Ipod. When I woke this morning it seemed to me that the garden was demanding my attention; this afternoon the serenity of my backyard is my reward. My creative energies were singly focussed on this task. NOW, perhaps Old Man Banksia et al will let me get on with other matters. Sigh.