Last summer, caterpillars ate my garden. At first there were only one or two, bright green and kinda cute in their own wriggly way. I thought nothing of them—after all, I prefer to leave bugs alone in the hopes that they’ll leave me alone in return. By the time I realised that their munching was a problem, that they were making short work of the greens I’d planted, they were everywhere. I learned that they were the offspring of the little yellow and white butterflies I’d enjoyed seeing pass through my garden, happily oblivious as I ensured my cat didn’t murder them as they flew across her line of sight. The butterflies had stealthily laid their eggs on my greens and on the larger leaves of some of my flowers. After the caterpillars came the black aphids, which still haven’t left, clinging like a sleeve to my spring onions and my flowers’ stems even during this last, freezing winter. The caterpillars and the aphids teamed up with the ever-present slugs and snails to thoroughly destroy the hard work I’d put into my little balcony garden.

I’ve never had much access to outdoor space of my own, somewhere I can plant things and tend to them (and apparently, deal with various insect infestations). Growing up in London, green space can be hard to come by generally, let alone gardening space. The last time I was able to grow things outside was when I was very young, when I would occasionally visit my grandmother’s allotment. She only had the spot for a year or so, until the work became too much for her to keep up with, but she grew rhubarb during that time and me and my brother helped with her tomatoes a few times. I remember visiting on a hot day and I remember the spiders that came crawling out of the earth as I dug with a hand fork. I remember feeling like my gardening gloves were not big enough for me to feel comfortable in such close quarters with so many insects. I still feel a bit like that when I garden outside but honestly, I would need a giant, airtight glove that fit around my entire body to feel comfortable around bugs.

When the caterpillars ate my garden, I was heartbroken. I put so much work into growing the vegetables they loved the most and the flowers that they were happy to munch for dessert. With my chronic pain and fatigue, the work I put into my garden is often the only work I’m able to do for several days, but it had felt like a worthwhile effort. Growing my own food, in particular, was a little act of anti-colonialism—and anti-imperialism and anti-capitalism. It was something practical I could do to reclaim some of the food that was stolen from my ancestors, to have affordable access to fresh vegetables, to connect with nature and appreciate the act of growing something I could then use and share with others. I cooked with most of the food I grew, although I never got a chance with some salad leaves I ambitiously planted at the height of the caterpillars’ rule. I enjoyed planting flower seeds and watching them sprout and bloom, the clumsy bumblebees arriving in spring and summer to gather pollen and hang out.

Even as I cried over my poor plants being decimated and my small act of resistance being prematurely ended, I understood that this is how nature works. This is also how gardening works, especially when you’ve grown up in cities, with little instruction or guidance on how to keep green things alive. Like all living things, plants die—they are eaten by other living things or they simply run out of life. They decompose back into the soil, providing the energy for renewal. Some plants, like leafy greens, require more protection than other plants, like wildflowers. From my caterpillar ordeal, I learned how to protect my vegetables. I also realised that I need a garden I can maintain as a disabled person without too much effort. I need to plant stuff that can survive if it misses being watered one day in the summer, that I don’t need to check for bugs every single day, and that isn’t easily susceptible to disease.

Last summer, almost my entire little garden was destroyed. In the autumn, I attempted to plant again—I tried to grow garlic and I scattered some flower bulbs and seeds—but the balcony looked bare compared with the previous winter, when my first greens were somehow already coming through. I put together a growing plan, marking out where I should plant what, and when I needed to sow the different seeds. At the beginning of this year, I was told that my housing is no longer stable. Soon enough, I won’t have my balcony or the garden I’ve grown on it. All my plans went out the window. What’s the point in using up my spoons to plant food and flowers in April when I’d have to tear it all down before any of it even matures?

The garlic I planted at the end of autumn sprouted too early and died off by spring. Some of my bulbs bloomed early as well and they were beautiful, but they died quickly, leaving brown and shrivelled corpses in their tubs. My ornamental grasses—the tasty forbidden treats my cat loved munching on when I needed to plant new cat grass for her—also died, finally. They’re still in their pots, sad and grey and half-eaten (by a cat this time, rather than bugs).

But there has been new life, too. A geranium plant unexpectedly started to bloom again, briefly. The little white flowers were wonderful to look at and much appreciated; I thought the plant would flower only once and then die. Seeds I randomly scattered in autumn have sprouted in some places. There has been a couple of fragile poppies (one got eaten by my cat) and some unidentified flower with bright orange petals. Daisies appeared out of nowhere in the cat’s grass tub. And there have been dandelions and weeds with tiny purple and blue flowers, plants that took root all on their own, with absolutely no effort from me. They are the greenest and bushiest plants on my balcony right now, and they make me happy to see. Because this is how nature is. Many of the plants that so unexpectedly bloomed this spring are now dead once again. The sun is too hot for them and the soil too compacted in their troughs. But in their place grows moss and leafy, hardy plants or there are husks that refuse to break down and decompose, even months after the plant has died. Those ones wait, I suppose, for something to come and take their seeds and transfer them into better soil so the cycle can resume.

I hope I can have my own garden again soon. Next time, I will begin with a plan so I can nurture a more accessible space, where I can grow green vegetables and vivid flowers and sturdy grass for my cat. I will try to protect my plants to minimise the damage done by bugs. And I will say goodbye to my plants when they wither or when disaster strikes and I will start again, as I always do.

stuff I did this month

I edited the third instalment of Katherine Quevedo’s Level Up Your Poetry series, titled The Name of the Game Is Immersion. I love the way that Katherine makes video game poetry accessible to all audiences even if, like me, you know basically nothing about poetry!

And because I had to skip the newsletter last month (hello flare ups, my old friend), I’ll mention that I edited Let Me Tell You About My OC(s): Tabletop RPGs as Disempowerment Fantasies in May. Melissa Brinks discusses how she uses TTRPG characters to relinquish responsibility and express her emotions loudly.

stuff I liked this month

I bought a rechargeable handheld fan for summer this year and it’s probably the best purchase I’ve made all year. If you’re in one of the many parts of the world experiencing the extreme effects of climate change right now, I hope you’re keeping safe.

Grimbeard’s review of The Ring: Terror’s Realm had me giggling this morning. Now you can appreciate this wild game too!

You can still grab the Queer Games Bundle on itch.io, which features over 500 games and zines from queer creators. The standard version is $60 but there’s also a Pay What You Can version, which starts from $10, if you need it.

Heavy Machinery is written by Zainabb Hull and powered by regrowth and sitting in the park on sunny evenings.

Like my work? Buy me a damn fine coffee.

Rusty machinery.