My Not-So-Secret Garden

Who would have thought that a New York City girl like me would become a gardener on our 31st floor balcony? Although I’ve never possessed a green thumb, I fell in love with flowers and decided to cultivate my own mini-garden. Despite three surgeries, I persevered in planting a variety of flowers and perennials. I learned how to pot and care for whatever plants and flowers caught my fancy. Why now in my late 60s am I willing to get dirty— (despite gloves and a manicure—) and happily lift, lug and scoop potting soil followed by daily watering?

Simple. As an autism mom, I wanted to create a summer escape from the horrors of the outside world, and the stress of my inside world. A large corner balcony with a heavy sliding door was the perfect answer. In addition to a white wrought iron table, chairs and a lounger, I covered the entire perimeter of my balcony with a riot of yellow, pink, and blue flowers along with several green plants. If I want to be left alone, I just slide the door shut. Opening the heavy door is too much of a struggle for my daughter. She sometimes lies in wait until I come back inside, but at least I get a well-deserved break.

My hip replacement four months ago only delayed my plant campaign beyond my Mother’s Day goal. As of June 2nd, I completed filling all of my 15 pots with an assortment of hydrangeas, yellow daisies, impatiens, begonias and who knows what else. Not bothering with the names, I just bought whatever looked pretty AND healthy (the better to survive my less than perfect horticulture skills). At the plant store, the salesmen told me to water the plants every day, especially the hydrangeas which require the most hydration.

After sweeping up all the potting dirt, I always fall in love with my plant babies. Every morning when I raise my blackout shades, I am treated to the beauties of nature in addition to skyline views.

“Thirsty?” I caress each plant before I water it.

As they bloom, I compliment them. “Wow, you look especially beautiful today. Do you want more sun or are you happy where you are?”

Of course, I don’t expect an answer. I fill them in for myself as I pour the water into their dryish soil. “Uh oh, why are you wilting? Did I drown you or not give you enough? Maybe it’s time to prune?”

I’m proud of my amateur gardening, especially when I receive compliments from my neighbors who are successful decorators. “You have a great eye for color. Your flowers are beautiful.”

These are my babies in my half-empty nest. I don’t want them to die, though inevitably a few plants shrivel up, or turn yellow (too much water) or brown (too little). Mostly I’m in awe of their beauty and resilience. Finally, at 68, I’m enjoying a tiny patch of nature which I’m helping to grow. (I hope). Drinking my morning coffee with my flowers and plants to keep me company (especially when there’s no wind!) is truly peaceful. Being up on the 31st floor I enjoy the relative quiet. I can’t hear my daughter screaming for me to help her with a non-urgent email, or my husband asking where his favorite sweatshirt is hiding. The sun reflecting off my babies’ leaves and petals is especially restorative. I count the new blossoms even as the older ones shrivel and drop.

For the first time in my life, I’m communing with nature on a glass and concrete balcony close to the sky. Nature and I, together in the most unlikely of times and places.

—

This Post is republished on Medium.

—

Photo credit: Author