That's why I am psychologically unfit to be a gardener. That's why something like writing suits me far better. You sit down, you research and write your article, and it's complete. Once it's published, there is no going back and changing anything. You are free to move onto the next thing.
Gardening, I have come to realize, is the exact opposite of writing.
When I look back at old pictures of my yard, like this one from 07, I'm shocked at how decrepit my once lovely yard has become. I put a lot of work into the yard for the first few years after we moved here. I hauled soil and gravel and laid slate slabs and patio stones. I built retaining walls and established perennial beds. I planted and planted and planted.
Finally everything looked close to perfect and I was done. Or so I thought.
I knew that winter kill would take a few plants each year, but when the low-bush cranberry hedge that I so painstakingly planted was wiped out, leaving a scraggly ghost hedge lining the front of the garage, I started to get discouraged. The downward slide continued, with insects decimating the honeysuckle vines one year, the newly replaced hostas perishing year after year, and the surviving perennials taking it upon themselves to move from their designated spots in the flower beds out into the pathways, pushing over the retaining walls as they left. Who knew those plants were so forceful?
The past couple of summers, I have given up on the yard entirely, not even planting any annuals in pots. But I am starting to get tired of having my yard look like something out of Grimms' fairy tales. It would be different if the house was at least made from candy, something to distract from the half-dead shrubbery and the weird objects that I try to pass off as yard art.
I think I'll plant some cherry tomatoes in all those bare patches in the perennial beds, and call it done.