Things I did not know
When I first started gardening, I thought dirt was just… dirt. You know, brown stuff, vaguely crumbly, probably fine. I did not realise there was “beautiful loam” (apparently the Beyoncé of soils), and then there was whatever I have: winter bog, summer concrete, and the transitional seasons of “squelch” and “dust.” No one told me that soil alone could make or break a garden. They really should put that on the seed packet: Warning: Your dirt might be the problem. Good luck.
I also assumed all plants hated winter as much as I do. I pictured them shivering in their little root socks, counting the days ’til spring like prisoners scratching tallies into a wall. Turns out…no! Some plants love the cold. They need it, and even demand it. Peonies and tulips basically treat winter like a spa retreat. “Oh, the ground is freezing? Fabulous. Wake me when it’s time to look stunning.”
And shade! I didn’t understand shade. I assumed everything needed sun, because that’s what 3rd form biology taught me….sun + water = growth, and thriving plants practically sing hymns to the sun god. Meanwhile, I was out back incinerating perfectly innocent shade lovers because I thought “more sun = more good.” I didn’t know there were plants that actively hate sunshine, recoil from it dramatically, and say things like, “Ugh, no, I’m dying. Murderer!”
And invasive plants? Don’t get me started. I didn’t know some of them wake up each morning with the single-minded ambition of a Bond villain. Plant one, and suddenly you’ve got a botanical coup underway with vines plotting, roots tunnelling, seedlings marching out across the lawn yelling, “WORLD DOMINATION!”
I didn’t know autumn colour intensifies the further south you go (in NZ), because cold does something sciencey to the leaves (chlorophyll? carotenoids? wizardry?), making them more vivid. All I know is, after moving from the Waikato to the South Island, autumn suddenly started showing off like a peacock on a girlfriend-finding mission.
I didn’t know nature had its own internal HR department, quietly managing pests by pairing plants together like it was running a botanical version of Tinder. This one repels aphids. This one improves soil. This one invites bees. This one breaks up clay because your soil is clearly emotionally damaged and needs help.
And here are a few more things I absolutely did not know:
I didn’t know you can do too much watering. The number of plants I lovingly drowned could fill a small cemetery.
I didn’t know slugs were so committed. Olympic athletes in stealth and destruction.
I didn’t know how expensive gardening could be until I realised my lovingly nurtured tomato probably set me back $153.97 in supporting materials.
I didn’t know gardening would turn me into a person who says things like, “Oh, wow, look at the structure on that shrub.”
I didn’t know that weeds are not just weeds, they’re opponents. With stamina and a drive for revenge.
I didn’t know that doing nothing in the garden for a week would be the equivalent of issuing an open invitation for chaos.
But I also didn’t know how much joy this learning curve would bring. I didn’t know how satisfying it would be to finally understand plants, even a little. I didn’t know how grounding it would feel, literally and emotionally. I didn’t know how hopeful gardening would make me. Every seed, every season, every mistake… it all turns into something.
I didn’t know that one day I’d look at my messy, imperfect, glorious garden and think, “This is where I was always meant to be.”
Did you know?
Today's obscure gardening word is etiolation, which sounds like either a rare medical condition or a minor character from a fantasy novel, but is actually what happens when plants don't get enough light. Instead of growing strong and sturdy, they become pale, stretched, and desperately elongated as they search for sunshine. If you've ever started seedlings indoors and ended up with something that looks less like a tomato plant and more like a green piece of spaghetti, you've witnessed etiolation firsthand. It's essentially the botanical equivalent of standing on your tiptoes trying to see over a crowd.
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