Want to quit gardening? Try pottering.

The only horticultural approach that guarantees a good time

As a society, we tend to think that people who are really good at things have some kind of natural gift. We assume - almost always incorrectly - that they were born that way. In actual fact, the people who excel in any given field usually have two very specific traits in common: they work hard, and they actually enjoy what they do.

This is partly why I spend so much time trying to convince people to enjoy the process of gardening, rather than the end result (there is no end result). If we aren’t enjoying ourselves out there, we’re not that likely to throw ourselves into it. We’re not going to work hard at it, we’ll be easily defeated, and, when push comes to shove and our latest crop of tomatoes have failed once again, we quit.

And that’s what I what to talk about today.

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The older I get, the more I realise that if you want to succeed at anything in life, one of the best skills you can cultivate is a dogged refusal to pack it in. Just don’t stop, don’t quit.

I remember the very first talk I went to, on the eve of beginning my PhD. The speaker pulled up a pie chart showing, out of all the people who ever begin a PhD, the percentage who see it through to completion. It was about half. Which, when you consider how much writing a PhD thesis TOTALLY SUCKS, isn’t really that bad. About two and a half years into mine, when I had absolutely no motivation and had descended to pits of boredom and disinterest I still shudder to remember, I came to a realisation: if I just didn’t stop, one way or another, it had to get done. It seemed incomprehensible that the torture could ever end, and I spent a LOT of time avoiding work by gardening and reading blog posts about how awful and soul destroying it is to do a PhD, but I didn’t stop. I crawled through the finish line like a sad, dried up snail and then, almost as soon as my academic career had begun, realised I bloody hate academia and quit to ‘write a gardening blog’. Make of that what you will.

My PhD didn’t propel me forward into a glorious academic career, but it did teach me that you really can continue to do something that you find mind rottingly boring, for a very long time, but also - more importantly - that the simple act of *not stopping* is often enough to set you apart from at least half of your peers.

That’s the life hack that not enough of us make use of. Yes, there are plenty of times when quitting is probably a very sensible thing to do (shitty relationships, toxic workplaces etc. etc). But if you really do genuinely want to be good at something, don’t go around thinking you need bucketloads of natural talent, or consistent, unwavering motivation. All you need to do is keep at it for longer than the average punter.

Which brings us to gardening.

Now is the autumn of our discontent

So many people quit their gardens in autumn. Maybe it’s a global phenomenon, I’m not sure. It’s certainly a Perth phenomenon. Summer has brutalised our backyards, our veggie crops have underwhelmed us, our tomatoes have keeled over and died, and our soil absolutely sucks. It feels like we are at the bottom of a deep, dark hole, and no one can be arsed trying to dig their way out when they know perfectly well that cold and rainy winter is only three months away. A lot of gardeners - and I was once one of them - decide there’s not much point in doing anything, and pack it in. Maybe forever. At least until spring.

The problem with this is that the next 6 months are actually the best, easiest and most rewarding times to garden in Perth. The sun finally stops smashing our beds, so our soil improvement methods work more easily (for more on this you can check out my new ebook about fixing Perth soil), the rain keeps gardens watered reliably enough that you can usually sow seeds direct wherever you want new plants to grow, and, despite the rain, we still have a tonne of blue sky, sunshine-filled days to get outside.

The best gardeners I know aren’t the ones who have read a tonne of books or done a heap of courses; they are people who have accumulated a lifetime of experience in their gardens, simply because they enjoy being in them. Garden long enough and you will start to learn things about your plants that are almost implicit. You’ll get gut feelings about what ails them, and what they need to thrive. You’ll start to feel the ebb and flow of the seasons, as spring turns to summer and summer to autumn. You’ll remember it’s time to sow your sweet peas and you won’t need me, or anyone else to remind you. You just start to feel it, somewhere in your bones. These are the things that make gardening fun, and easy, and turn people’s thumbs green. And they aren’t hard skills to acquire if you just do one simple thing: mess around in your garden for a wholeeee lot of your life.

So, if you are sick of gardening, if you are feeling the autumnal malaise and are on the cusp of quitting, here is my advice: just don’t. Try pottering instead.

Pottering, not gardening

Pottering instead of gardening is a simple reframe that makes a big difference to your mindset. Gardening involves to-do lists, ‘jobs for the weekend’, pruning, seed sowing schedules, lawn maintenance and every other overwhelming, pressure-building thing you can think of. Pottering can still include all those things, if you want it to, but it just feels different. Pottering is about having fun. Without plans, or goals. You don’t dream up the tasks you ‘need to do’ in your garden and head out there to do them. You go outside without any goal in mind, and you just…see what bubbles to the surface.

I am firmly convinced that the people who never give up gardening are the potterers. Because, when all else fails and you’ve totally had enough, the way to get back into your garden (or to avoid quitting it for good), isn’t to lump more pressure on yourself, or criticise yourself, or focus on all the ways your garden sucks. It’s to remember why you love being out there in the first place. Sun on your back, teacup in hand, letting the garden tell you what it needs.

When they hear my definition of pottering, plenty of people tell me that that’s what they’ve been doing this whole time. For the rest of you who aren’t familiar with the practice, here’s how to do it, in four simple steps.

1. Make a cup of tea/coffee, pour yourself a beer, or a glass of wine

2. Head outside.

3. Aimlessly wander. Look for bugs. Breathe. Wait.

4. Wait for it to come to you - the desire to do something. It doesn’t matter what it is. Don’t rush it, it will arrive on its own. It always does.

That’s it. Let the garden come to you - it will tell you what it needs. If your soil looks thirsty, you’ll find yourself watering. Watch as the golden afternoon light glints off the airborne droplets. If your rose is covered in spent blooms, chop them off and pick a bouquet for your bedside table. If you spy a ripe tomato, pick it, and eat it right there in the middle of your garden bed. Maybe you find a bag of manure that’s been lying around for a month, chuck it somewhere. Maybe your rosemary needs a trim, or your birdbaths need refilling. Maybe you’ll just sit in the sunshine, sip your beer, and muse, dazedly about future trees you’ll plant, beds you’ll build, designs you’ll try.

There’s no right way to grow a garden. And, over the years, as my soil has turned from sand to *something-slightly-better-than-sand*, as I’ve learned the proper names of more and more of what I grow, as I’ve acquired enough knowledge to have the audacity to ditch my ‘serious career’ for whatever the hell this is, I’ve learned that only one thing really matters. Only one thing will truly make you a great gardener, with a beautiful garden, and a happy, grubby soul. You must make sure to enjoy it.

Potter on, my friends!

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Thank you for reading! See you next time for more Lo fi life!

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