Weeds

In the far back corner of my yard, between the concrete slab for the clothesline and the fence, was a nondescript patch of dirt. When we bought the house, it was covered by a garden shed; alas, a nasty storm saw the end of that structure. What was left was a rectangular strip of mostly woodchips, sitting on a bed of clay. Soil? Hardly any. The citizen ecologist in me saw an opportunity—I would rebuild this little desert into a thriving biosphere.

I set up the compost bin in that corner and raked every fallen leaf onto the stark surface. I poked and prodded, monitored and experimented, as I worked to try and create soil there without having to add gypsum. I knew it would be a slow process. Nature operates on a much deeper timescale than human life. The neighbours on that side sold their house and new neighbours moved in. This necessitated the building of a makeshift wall to stop our dogs from boundary patrols until they got used to each other. The difficulty of moving parts of the wall to get through meant my little eco corner got less regular attention, but when the new neighbours cut down almost all their trees I had to take action. The hakea is a wonderful native tree; not too tall, and heaven for pollinators and nectar eating birds. A perfect replacement for what was now gone from next door. I acquired a sapling  and planted it right in the middle of the still-quite-bare-but-slowly-improving patch, mulched it in, gave it some water.

Again the temporary dog fort meant reduced access and the hakea was left to fend for itself. And my usual lack of skill as a gardener reared its head; the hakea appears to be nothing now but a glorified stick, along with the two other seedlings I acquired at the same time. But while the little tree didn’t manage to establish itself in that unyielding corner, something else was happening. The weeds were taking over. 

That corner became quite wild with hawksbeard and dandelions, their yellow flowers gazing cheerily up at the sun. The lone shrub that had clung to life beside the now defunct garden shed relaxed into the space a little, spreading out and becoming three dimensional. Suddenly the little desert was teeming with life. But…weeds. They needed to go, in the name of garden health. 

Or so I thought.

I paused to consider what the weeds were doing. Those taproots were getting down deeper into that clay, doing the job of gypsum with no contribution from me. When they died down, they were adding to the layer of nutrient-rich soil I was trying so hard to build. A distracted session of staring out my studio window revealed butterflies dancing merrily over the blooms, and one morning hanging out the laundry a pair of crimson rosellas and I surprised each other. The rosellas were feasting on the seed heads, making gentle chirping sounds in quiet conversation. 

Then the superb fairy wrens moved in. I adore them. Their jaunty melodies drift in through my studio window, and it’s a joy to watch their busy little bodies wagging back and forth as they dart from the fence, to the clothesline, into the wild weed-forest, and back again. It’s that time of year when the males are at their magnificent blue best, and there are nests and hatchlings about. It was the wrens that cemented it for me. There was no way I could go in there now and interfere. I’d achieved a delightful little patch of biodiverse ecosystem, just not quite the way I intended.

Once the breeding season is over, I will go in and thin out the plants gone to seed so other things have a chance to grow. I’ll make sure I fill the gaps with something else that will give my feathered friends and the pollinators that have enjoyed their time in my garden a reason to keep coming back. The chirping of birds, the drone of bees, the flick of a butterfly’s wing: these are things that give me hope for the future of our world. I want to keep them here, and hold on to the peace they bring. Nature can heal, if we let it, if we support it to do what it knows is right. My little strip of dirt, once barren and now alive and vital, reminds me of that every time I look at it.

It just needs a little bit of a hand with the weeds sometimes.