Junk Drawer

Sun streams down onto the roofs of Southeast London for what feels like the first time this year.

In January it rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained.

There was one clear day. I went out into the garden to prune our rosebush for the first time. Armed with advice from my sister’s friend’s gardener boyfriend, I clipped the stem just above the emerging bud. At first the chaotic tangle of green leaves, browning stems, and hang-on pink flowers were a treacherous maze, an infinite project. As I progressed from stem to stem, I grew in confidence and brutality, cutting further down the stem, discarding substantial hunks of plant on the ground. After accumulating enough thorn-based injuries, I stood back with my wellies caked in mud. The naked stems sat stark but refreshed.

I hoped to start Derek Jarman’s Modern Nature in January, where his journal begins. I hoped to be inspired by his gardening journey through the year as I recommence mine. I hoped to learn about the cycle of the seasons and trusting the land. I hoped to observe another journaling practice. But I have too many books on the go already and I’d like to finish those first. It’s only February. It’s useful to remember that not everything can happen so neatly.