In the past few weeks in my garden I have moved a slew of plants, from tree ferns to wild ginger, filling in the space left by the removal of a garden structure. New territory was welcome; the garden was becoming a cave. I should have waited until the house next door is repainted. It could happen any day; the renovating hammers have been pounding for months.
I abused the tallest tree fern something fierce moving it a few feet south but it hasn’t shown a sign of resentment so far, nor has the Taylor’s Perfection camellia. A real gardener (I know several) would have cut it to the ground. One must be ruthless. Am I not tired of its pinkness?
May I congratulate myself on all the energy it took, skill, too, to pull this off. I want to grab people off the street and say, come see. For the first time in a long time, I am lonely.