I have often wondered about the burning bush in The Bible. How could a bush apparently on fire not be quickly reduced to ashes? But you were not supposed to question the scriptures. If it says "burning" then it was afire and that was the end of it. The other evening a solution presented itself. The sun was setting. And behold there in a corner of The Grove was a burning bush. And the bush was not consumed by fire, and Plutarch was well pleased.
Making something tidy that was an appalling mess is mighty satisfying. After the scaffolds have gone we prune the hedge which we could not reach, sweep up the scraps of old paintwork and other detritus, tie back shrubs achieve stage one of restoration, put away unwanted pots and tools ... and pause to reflect. Things are just beginning to get back to normal. Normal is a beauteous thing at the moment. And then on cue it rains. The residual dust settles or is washed away and as the sun reappears surfaces shine.
Among things I used to dislike are hydrangeas. There was one in a corner of my grandmother's garden. It spoke to me of dusty neglect and a sort of despair. Subsequent hydrangeas had a similar effect. Today I realise that I have learnt to like these showy flowers especially the lace cap variety. I pass a bed and marvel at them, some pink, some blue, like a mosaic come to life.