My mother has never bought into therapy. Yet each weekend from March until September, when the temperature rises, she disappears into the fray of greenery that coats the back of our house. Gardening is, she says, nature’s therapy. “It’s compulsive,” she warns me. She’s right, too. The courtyard attached to our one bed bungalow has become a safe haven, of sorts. A balm to my unfurling anxiety. My game changing discovery is wholly unoriginal, it...