Gardening is good for my soul because I usually reap what I sow.
Sometimes I don’t reap at all, because of the weather, which I cannot control, or the weeds, which I can only try to tame.
When I am very angry with my children, and frustrated beyond words, I take my gardening shears and wrestle the ivy that grows vigorously on my boundary fence. In England and America ivy might represent prestige, aristocracy, and pre-eminence, but here in Adelaide, it is just a weed. A nuisance. It lashes out at me, scars my arm; I yank the vines mercilessly, reach much further than I should as I balance on my ladder, survive my folly, and step back into my home a little tamer and a little saner.
Then I try to speak to my children reasonably, with love and patience if I can manage it, because I usually reap what I sow. And ivy is practically indestructible, but children are not.
Gardening is good for my soul.