Notes from the garden; Rainy summers, beech trees and layered gardens
On building a forest garden and communing with trees
Hello! Welcome to this section of my Substack called ‘Notes from the garden’. I have long had a dream of growing my own food. Follow me as I go from supermarket shopper and absolute garden novice, to growing and creating. If you are a grower or a wannabe grower, I would love to hear your thoughts/tips/support in the comments. Anna xx
Hello loves,
I hear that its set to be a rainy summer.
I could not be happier.
An unpopular opinion, yes. But rainy summers are my absolute favourite.
Yesterday, I escaped to the forest. The sky was grey, driving away even the seasoned hikers, the dog walkers, the regulars. No one, it seems, is a fan of dull and humid. Thrilled, I sat under my beech tree. Silence in the city. A rarity.
The rain started to fall, the leaves piano keys in natures song. Rain drops causing them to bounce in time with its tune. I laid my head back on the bark of the tree, closed my eyes, and listened. The soft pattering of the shower on the canopy, the birds singing their melodic tune, also pleased at the lack of human today. For the first time in months, I could breathe.
I work the week in a job I no longer love but is soon coming to an end. So I drift through the days with little willing or purpose, becoming more exhausted than normal at the usual tasks. When the week ends I jump in the car and travel 100 miles to care for my family, to take the hospital visits, have the hushed conversations, and sit in an atmosphere of what ifs.
I feel this cold I’ve caught is my present from God. I was banned from the family home as dad is on chemo. I do not have work this week either. So all that was open to me was rest and a birthday alone.
Because yes, today you find me a year older. A year and 3 days to be precise.
Many may celebrate their birthday with a glass of champagne (I am as a sober as a judge), or cutting cake with those they love (I am full of cold and therefore cannot be near them in light of my snottiness) or unwrapping mounds of presents (merely the thought of which makes me gag). I, however, took the chance to reset. Away from prying eyes and well wishers. I wanted to be enveloped in the silence.
I have felt in these last few weeks a loss. A feeling that I no longer know myself. The adrenaline and autopilot driving out my sense of who I am, my spirituality, even my hope.
After several bowls of my homemade butternut squash, carrot and ginger soup; a recipe I swear by to rid me of all ills, a short walk was in order. I was determined to get into the forest on my birthday, to my specific oak tree that I so often visit. But being a bank holiday weekend, the way was blocked, and instead I was sent to the centre of the park, where trees are sparse. Already grouchy, I huffed and puffed my way down the hill, to the small copse. Turning into the thicket I let out a small gasp. You are old. Ancient. I whisper. This not to myself, but to the beech, as she stands majestically in this hidden woodland. A tree I have never really worked with. Known in Celtic traditions as the consort to the Oak King. She is the feminine to the Oak’s masculine. Under her shade, a black feather was laid.
I could feel my throat close. Fear gripped me. If you decide to believe in signs, you are all in. You cannot choose to believe in some and not others. And so with trepidation I examined the black feather, and then another, both positioned perfectly in my path. I knew that white feathers were a sign of a guardian, watching over you, their protection close to hand. I had been brought to this place, so this sign was for me. Please do not signify death I silently urge. But it did not feel like death. It felt…..mystic. Old. It is not death. The feather, as always a symbol of transformation. A black feather a recognition of one’s own awakening, a deep magic. I am meant to be here on this day. In this place. The earth is telling me so. And this beech will nurture me back to health. To a place where I know myself again.
For the next 4 days, I visit her.
This deep love I hold for the forest almost feels as if I am betraying my heritage. I am a coastal girl. Grown and nurtured by the sea. Emerging from the swirling foam of the tides, but now, I recognise, as I enter the second half of my life, I am shaped by the forest. I have heard that those who grow up by the sea, prefer the sea and the same for those who live near woodland. Perhaps I am an anomaly because other than the midges, the trees hold my spirit.
I am reluctant to leave this place where I have found such connection over the last 7 years. I still secretly hope for a lottery win that will allow me to keep this sanctuary close to me. But as I begin to pack up my life here, just in case that lottery win does not come, I have decided to build my own forest, back home in the community garden.
The forest garden
describes the knowing of place. She beautifully discusses how understanding the sense of timing and emergence of those living organisms around you can give you grounding, a sense that this home. In Weathering1, she reminds me how often we superficially find beauty in a singular tree but this individualism, although may seem photo worthy, is in fact an unhealthy tree, ripped from its community, its life forces, its being. So here as I begin to regain my own life force once more, I set about building my own patch of forest here at the community garden. A forest where I may know the exact moment a pear ripens, when the figs appear on the trees and the blossom of the plum may bloom. I will help to build a community from the pieces that are already left behind that both fit and jar in equal measure, knowing that the more we add the greater the connection. The forest garden has always been a part of the community garden landscape, but in the last few years has been left unattended. Some layers complete and others not. The concept behind a forest garden is that they ideally must have 7 layers2; tall trees, low trees, shrubs, herbs, ground covers, vines, and root crops. A multi-layered canopy serving a depth of biodiversity, layers that support one another, each bring their own medicine, and provide the exact right conditions for yet more life to be sustained. Ours probably has more of a 3-5 layer feel and even though the biodiversity in the area has increased tenfold, it has probably reached its climax without further intervention.
As we walk the garden, examining what we have, taking samples for pressing and identifying, Kiera3 shares her stories as an apothecary in training. Nettles for arthritis and inflammation. Sheer amazing tales of people rubbing these stinging plants all over their body to reduce joint pain. It has been hypothesised by scientists that the chemicals that create the stinging sensation change how our body transmits pain, and deals with inflammation4 which over time reduces the tenderness felt in arthritis. A colleague of ours is bitten, and Kiera deftly picks some greater plantain, instructing him to chew it for a few seconds before holding it on the bite. The itching subsides. This is a different world. It is not only the creation of a home, but that of a support system, a permaculture from which we may all benefit and nurture.
We taste 3 cornered leeks, peppercorn like seeds and wild garlic. There is a certain decadence in tasting food straight from the garden. A feeling of being fed by the Gods. We become overwhelmed by Alexander, the flowers of plum trees and carpets of daisies. There is a wildness to this area, a wildness that cannot be tamed. It is a fleeting taste of something more, and for me, a need to search is sparked. A search for further remnants of who we should be, not who we are. I visit an exhibition by
on Why Women Grow in the Gardening Museum in Lambeth. I am inspired by every single woman there. It feels radical and brave (to break the rules of horticulture) and be like, actually, the muddle is gorgeous says Poppy O’Kotcha. I cannot help but feel this is akin to womanhood. How we twist and change through our years and how we ourselves must appreciate the beauty of our own messiness. We are not a jigsaw to be put together, rather a woodland of many pieces, each holding and supporting the other. As I approach 40, there is something in this rediscovering, this need to attend to something wild, to ascertain its freedom.There is no doubt that there is work to be done here but this place is more than a bolthole in a storm. It is a temple. As I round each corner, unsure of the names of everything I find, I can feel the hum of existence in this tree lined space, the sweetness in the blossom, and the decay beneath my feet. A reminder that all is finite, but that in itself makes these moments even richer.
Almost all religions have an idea of a garden as the beginning. It’s as though it were some kind of resonant, image in the human psyche…..
Sally Vickers, Jungian Psychotherpaist and author. Heard on the excellent podcast5 by
What next for the forest garden
So what will happen next? I will continue to document the work here, perhaps once or twice a season, share what I discover, what I identify. This is not a quick job. It is a decades long calling. Seeing it as such allows me to breathe, and to flow with the season, not rush, but know. So I take my camera every week, and a take a photo or two. Document what I find, how something is flowered, where it is. Slowly building up a picture of what is we may see here.
Soon, it will be time to layer the forest garden more, to extract those plants that perhaps do not serve us at this time. I am loathe to say weeds. Weeds are plants whose virtues are yet to be discovered (Ralph Waldo Emerson). For now, I will also learn the weeds too, watch as wildlife builds in the nooks and crannies, slow worms find their hot spots, and bees stagger from the hedgerows.
I learn more about God
From weeds than from roses;
Resilience springing
Through the smallest chink of hope
In the absolute of concrete....
~Phillip Pulfrey, "Weeds," Perspectives
I find a similar solace here as I do underneath the leaves of the beech. That this wildness is a teacher, full of signs and that as I learn more about what it is to grow, somehow amongst it all I will find myself, time and time again.
I continue to hope for a rainy summer, so I may rest under this new canopy, and learn what it means to live in the silence of the forest.
Until next time.
Anna xx
Weathering by Ruth Allen is one of the most supremely wonderful books I have read this decade. Perfectly weaving both science and spirituality so that we may regain our sense of place within this world, and not just sit atop of it. I highly recommend.
There are many videos on the Permaculture Magazine YouTube channel that are extremely useful.
Real names aren’t used here. The community garden is a special place, that allows people to come, and blend, and I honour this in the anonymity of my posts.
Nettles take the sting out of arthritis pain - The Lancet
Also be sure to check out Alice’s exhibition based on the podcast at The Garden Museum, Lambeth until the 30th June 2024
I am writing this essay as part of the 24 essays club (this is number 6) with the wonderful Claire Venus you can read more about the essay club below.
There is definitely something wonderful about beech trees. I think they have a magical, healing property known only to the select few who listen. I hope you feel better soon.
What an exciting forest project! I wish you well and look forward to reading more about it.
I loved this line:
“The rain started to fall, the leaves piano keys in nature’s song.”
Wishing you speedy healing from your cold and sending healing wishes to your family.