Turning and turning within the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things crumble; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and all over the place
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are stuffed with passionate intensity.
From “The Second Coming”, W. B. Yeats
AFTER a take a look at the news, it’s reassuring to know that these words from W. B. Yeats weren’t written yesterday, but were composed in 1919, amid the disillusionment of Europe immediately after the First World War. Despair on the world’s contortions has an extended history; and yet in some way we remain, in some way we still smile.
Today, things crumble, and the centre cannot hold because there is no centre: nothing held in common. The technology that was meant to unite us — that was meant to create a fireplace around which the world could gather and talk — has delivered the other. The brave recent world is a pot-pourri of small worlds, ruled by lobby groups and inflamed opinions, grabby moguls, grabby nations, and area of interest obsessions, rigorously counting their followers. Everyone wants more; everyone seems to be indignant, everyone unhappy, everyone gasping for attention, and everybody lashing out. Resources to satisfy are finite. The only surplus is within the opinion and judgement department, stimulated by brain-rotting social media.
AND so, as Yeats writes, “The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and . . . the ceremony of innocence is drowned.” Democracy is gasping for breath; it cannot hold this together. Democracy requires a centre around which to assemble: something agreed, and shared. When nothing is shared, nothing agreed, and every thing is demanded, when everyone seems to be indignant and hysteria is boss, the nation can’t be governed. Enter the strong man — ever more frequent, today — who will divide and rule; after which just rule. Disintegration and chaos beg for the autocrat.
And societal disintegration is mirrored in personal disintegration, where label-loving narratives of the hard-done-by variety fuel entitlement, misinformation, and offence; where gratitude is replaced with criticism, serenity with anger, and body knowledge with heady opinion. How can the centre possibly hold?
This is why the garden gospel is so beguiling; and we’ll take Yeats with us as we step outside and contemplate our latter-day piece of Eden.
THE first sign of the garden gospel is the bodily work required. Gardens require labour. There’s clearing and composting, weeding, planting, watering. Here, I’m in my body and never in my head. As I dig and delve, or wrestle with the ivy’s deep root systems, I don’t have any opinions. This is a relief, as opinions are certainly one of the top’s darkest creations. I’m in my body; I’m earthed — literally. The breeze has more power than my judgements, and more good sense. In my body, I’m one with all that’s around me. I sense commonality; I sense an even bigger story than myself. Only my opinions separate.
Second, I understand death, decay, and unfairness. Plants and vegetables struggle, wilt, and die. The garden shouldn’t be fair; creation shouldn’t be fair. Why are people surprised at this? Some plants live their full lives, some hardly get going. Hard work shouldn’t be at all times rewarded; beauty doesn’t at all times win; and weeds often seem higher equipped for longevity. That’s just the way it is. The garden is an earth bowl of uncertainty; so we allow this. Attachments to outcomes are unhelpful; and should bring frustration. The surly gardener, bitter on the birds eating his cherries, understands nothing. Here, within the garden, is risk in addition to beauty; where we do what we are able to after which rest with things as they’re.
THIRD, plants rise: here, there’s strange and unpredictable resurrection. We can have given up on the yellow rose last yr. It didn’t occur in any respect. But they take time to settle, and this yr its flowers dazzle. And the lilies, decimated by the frost and crushed by a jumping fox — they’re back, as if this stuff never happened. Deep underground, the hard seed dies to itself and rises in glory. Resilience is the understanding that nothing is the tip of the story — here is the deep magic of the garden.
Fourth, gardens surprise. Plans are allowed — everyone starts with a plan. But the plan isn’t the reality, and within the garden we’ll be ready for surprises. Plants we never planted appear; it happens on a regular basis, and sometimes they’re the best flora on show. In the garden, we now have to let go of control just because we will not be on top of things. If we let go of control of what should and shouldn’t be, we see more of the sweetness. Uncertainty is the understanding, and that’s OK.
Fifth, the garden returns us to our centre. Here, we don’t have to turn out to be anything, or strive to be anything. The garden doesn’t judge. Here, we grasp at nothing and resist nothing. Like the plants, we may live or die: life here is fragile, but all is well for now. I rest with things as they’re, and trust — often so elusive — arrives. With mind stilled, I actually have found my centre, and here I can hold all things.
AND, finally, I discover connection. The sunflowers, of their mad glory, invite people to stop and talk — maybe even to hitch in. I leave sunflower saplings for passers-by to take. “I’m taking two for my grandchildren,” a builder says. They go in a day.
Beauty is attractive; it creates connections that didn’t previously exist. So, what started off as a labour for one becomes, over the yr, a community of many, drawn for a moment into the space and into the story. Helping beauty is rarely a waste of time as things crumble — because things can mend.
I leave the vegetable patch, and step back inside. I return to the disintegrating world: it’s where I live, although my disintegrating self feels higher for time spent away. It is paradise regained in a fashion; innocence un-drowned; convictions cleaned and clearer; the Garden of Eden recovered.
For a moment, the falcon can hear the falconer.
Simon Parke is a counsellor and author.
