The body's way of coming to terms with loss, perhaps. I'm glad it's in good hands.įor now, I'm content to indulge the mourning, if that's what it is. The new owner has taken it on as a retirement project, and she's lovely. I added a greenhouse, shed, raised beds and the soil is incredible, thanks to a veggie rich diet feeding the compost heaps. Good news is I left the plot in a better state then when I got it. I'm sure my green-fingered urges will resurface, probably when we get our own garden. Proximity to nature, muddy fingers and the stench of compost is very much who I am, and to give up the allotment feels like a betrayal of that. Realisitically, the allotment isn't a priority any more, what with growing my coaching practice, a new dog and planning to move house. More like an extension of British gardens where we like to keep ourselves to ourselves. It wasn't the leftie utopia I'd hoped for. I won't miss the veiled Brexity-racism, moaning, and petty politics. When the consequences of what we've done linger for a while. We call it reflection, with regret, relief, sadness, happiness - whatever, but we go through a kind of separation. I've been wondering if I'm in a kind of mourning - the aftermath of making a significant decision or a change in life. That tells me I've made the right decision, I think. I walk past it most days and you know what? I feel only relief. This allotment has been in my life for about 5 years now.
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