One of the things that makes gardening so perpetually, addictively interesting to me is how it challenges beliefs I’d previously held about myself – often on an annual basis. Some beliefs are big, others are smaller, such as my dislike of asters.
Ask me in the middle of spring, when everything is new and fresh, and the tulip petals look as if they’ve been streaked with a fan-shaped brush, and I will confidently say I’m not an aster fan. Too fussy, too much lilac, too bushy. But scoot forward six months, and I regret I hadn’t planted a few in the gaps that appear at this time of year.
