Surprises of a winter garden

Winter has been a bittersweet season. Bitter for the obvious reasons that I won’t belabour for now. Sweet because winter is such a necessary season for gardens. I have observed my little garden in between the storms and the wind and the bitter cold. Winter gardens can be so forgiving. Thanks to all the Cape rain (albeit it arrived a little late this year) I haven’t been of much use in the garden.

When the occasional few days of sunshine arrived I would try to make the most of it by mostly moving plants around and repotting. I have been making endless lists of changes I hope to make come Spring and warmer weather. Nothing grand, just making room for more experiments.

Despite the quiet changes throughout winter, there are other plants that thrive with the arrival of winter. The aloe ciliaris has been steadily climbing up the wall. It has multiplied and reached new heights with virtually little interference. The tree pelargonium has needed extra support and some leaves are the size of my hands and the pink sedum spectacle has returned with new gusto this winter; last year I don’t remember seeing as much flowering.

The highlight of my winter garden remains the arum lilies. I keep appreciating them anew with every new season. I watched them shrivel with the arrival of summer. I was “shook” as the leaves began to dry up one by one, leaving little stumps. At times I worried that I wasn’t watering the patch enough. I thought I had done something wrong. When they had all but disappeared, I had a moment of fear wondering if they would return. Eventually I realised this is the simple cycle of the lilies: birth, bloom, death and resurrection. The remaining stumps slowly turned into new leaves by March and by June I knew they would return in their full glory with the smooth white flowers. I had to laugh at myself: watching the lilies disappear was akin to dress rehearsing tragedy: they will never come back, I’ve done something wrong! I forgot that the garden has its own rhythm, which has nothing to do with my insecurities.

When the lilies finally resurrected I was reminded of not only the rhythm of winter gardens but also Alice Walker’s line from her poem Revolutionary Petunia, “the nature of this flower is to bloom”; even though some flowers did not return. At the end of summer the little bush of pin cushions dried up. Eventually I took the advice of a friend and decided to deadhead them (such violent language for such a necessary process). It was only after watching a video about pruning in a Japanese garden that I could pluck up the courage of deadheading (which is basically cutting off the shrivelled flowers and waiting for the new leaves to arrive). While I understand the importance of pruning, I realised I was more comfortable with the metaphor than the real life experience of decapitating a plant.

I’m still quite stunned that cutting away excess leaves makes room for new leaves to blossom. Where do they come from? The science of new leaves is the kind of magic I enjoy. It is a simple gift of paying attention. The gift of nature. Every time I watch new flowers and leaves arrive in their shyness, I convince myself I will be a botanist in my next lifetime so I can develop an intimate knowledge of this system of renewal.

The pin cushions are not the only ones that did not return. While the piempiempie returned with new leaves, I am yet to see the orange flowers that appeared last year. I bought the plant last winter just before it began to bloom. The delicate orange flowers unfurled slowly and they took their time to dazzle me. And then summer arrived. Unlike the arum lilies, which left a little evidence, giving me some hope for renewal, the piempiempie disappeared completely. I blamed the summer heat.

So imagine my delight when the sleek leaves made an appearance as though fighting for attention next to a pot I had put in its place. As more leaves appeared, I decided to move the plant into a pot and to a different spot. I waited for the flowers as I began to see the pink and orange flowers return along the M3. When I shared my frustration with a gardener friend she reminded me that the plant could still be getting used to the new soil. Or perhaps it’s been too cold. Or there’s been too much rain. Whatever the reason is, I’m still waiting for the piempiempie to bloom.

And with the slow arrival of Spring (which was announced by the bougainvillea’s flowers) I can’t help but wonder what the next season will bring.