The Garden As Muse

I am sitting beneath my river birches with a gentle breeze blowing. It lifts the branches, gently, around me. I am reading a new erotic romance anthology, Obsessed! It is anither Rachel Kramer Bussel anthology and as good as all her others. But the piece that resonares the most as I sit in my little corner of nature is Raven's Flight. By Andrea Dale. Thank you Andrea for making me smile, and thank the Lord and Lady for such a lovely story on such a lovely day.

The Natural Way

I am on vacation. It is the first week of June (2009) and I was hoping (as always) for a beautiful week off. I am locked away in an office building NYC during the day job and the opportunity to be out of doors is precious to me.

For the first four days things were OK. So-so. A couple of incredibly gorgeous days, but also those late PM thunderstorms and showers. Today has been the least pleasant day and, following some showers, a cold front has moved through and things are a bit grey and chilly.

But I've been enjoying myself, nonetheless. The rain has alleviated the need for me to drag my hose around watering and after a burst of creative gardening energy yesterday, I managed to pull a muscle (or ten) in my lower back and today was restricted to chair-duty.

I was, however, able to walk around and look at the progress I've made so far. Some delightfully arranged terra cotta pots with begonias and impatiens (complimentary shades) that have been lined up on an old bench. The collections of my vegetables - tomatoes, basil, parsely, herbs, hot peppers - that are all awaiting the return of my physical vigor in order to plant them. I looked into different nooks and crannies and was inspired by the delight of the riotously self-sowing Siebolda Elegans hostas. I can dig up several extras and plant them along the stark white plastic fence my neighbors have erected - in place of the 60 year old everygreen hedge. I have some daylilies to move from the now-darkened corners (see fence comment above) to new homes where they'll thrive. And, of course, I have excess William Baffin suckers, odd little dogwood shoots, and numerous extra bishops' weed plants that can be put to good use in other areas.

But after I did my wandering, I had to sit down with some old gardening magazines which I promised to go through in order to get rid of as many as possible (what do you mean you don't have house and garden magazines from 1988 in your house?). In my favorite chair - the bargain of the century, my $14.00 plastic Adirondack chair that is perfection in my garden - so much so that I have 10 of them in assorted colors including hot pink - I grabbed a stack of magazines and went to work.

From the English gardens to the Southwestern US spaces; exotic Florida gardens and a wealth of Northeastern vegetable operations, I persued gardens, gardeners, ideas, plants, and studied the amazing photographs that accompanied these stories. Chefs with kitchen gardens, writers with herb gardens, artists with knot gardens and authors with gardens comprised of Shakespeare-named roses.

And what I gained (in addition to a redweld filled with tear-sheets of things I cannot bear to part with) is a wealth of inspiration.

As a writer with a (some say excessively fervent) imagination, I can recognize the perfect house and garden for my lingerie designer as she escapes from her urban existence. For the scrappy pastry chef who yearns for her own restaurant - the perfect herb garden and messy potting shed. The perfectly set table with fresh vegetables and flowers that says "home" to the bad girl who dares to go home again.

Fresh air and the succor of my natural "writer's space" are paramount to me. I can slough off the exhaustion and frustration that a stifling day job and commuting and crowds and the worries of life heap upon me. I can stretch out my legs with bare feet that feel the tickle of the pachysandra and the cool chill of damp bricks. I can breath in fresh air, and feel a cool breeze upon my face. Watch the leaves far above my sway on the branches of my sycamore tree. See the squirrels, bumble bees, feral cats and odd insects as they go about their daily business in the oasis I have created.

An oasis that feeds me, spiritually and creatively, just as it feeds them.

Find your own writer's space and trust me, if you can instill an element of nature, of green, of life, into that space .... it will be that much more inspiring. Allow yourself to wallow in Mother Nature's own remedy for stress, strain, and anxiety. Spend some time in nature.

Surprise! Surprise!

A gardener must be ever vigilant. There are always unpleasant surprises awaiting the slothful and the unwary. Caterpillars the size of your thumb eating their way through, well, everything. Blackspot. Mosaic virus. Rust. Earwigs. Ants. Snails, slugs, aphids, powdery mildew. Drought, of course, or excessive rain. Soil that has been leached of its nutrients that yields weak results. Heatwaves that destroy anything not tough, or vascillating weather than results in shock to the plants, blossom end rot on your tomatoes and so forth. Not to mention the ubiquitous weed, ever present, ever hardy, unvanquished by even the most diligent (unless one resorts to weed killer - SHUDDER! - something no self-respecting organic gardener would ever dream of).

But then there are the other kinds of surprises. The curious surprises like the Siebolda Elegans hasta that one year comes up chartreuse with different shaped leaves, or the rosebush that changes from lavender to a wine-red bloom. The lilac tree that slowly stops producing violet flowers and then only gives white bunches.

I've had tiny little hostas that are growing in the crack of a brick sidewalk ten feet from any other hosta. Those buggars must really catapult those seeds!

A precious surprise was the tiny Japanese maple that suddenly popped up in the middle of my shade garden in an absolutely perfect location. Being ever thankful for free bounty, and since it was exactly the color scheme I had planted originally anyway (purple and black), I let it grow and now 2 years later it is 3 feet tall!

The trees or plants that you think are at death's door which suddenly spring back into life. The tiny violets that spread everywhere giving a carpet of green and violet and white everywhere. The free gifts from a neighbor and, with the aid of the bird population, other gifts of plants and trees.

Then there is that annual surprise. The one that I always know will come, but which never fails to spring upon me with all the suddenness of Dorothy opening the door of her relocated Kansas farmhouse onto a bounty of beauty and color.

Which is exactly what happened yesterday morning, May 2nd.

Our spring in the Northeast has been terribly dry. The usual procession of plants and trees was laboring to get a toehold, but with the weather so arid, things were a bit slow. The tree leaves had budded - barely - and there was a bit of growth on the other plants. My violets were sticking their leaves out and there were small clumps of lemon balm scattered about. Daylilies had a few leaves above-ground and the hosta stalks, ferns, coral bells, lilies of the valley and bleeding hearts had all come up but were by no stretch of the imagination big, beautiful or thriving.

Then came 2 days of rain. Thursday there were just a few sprinkles during the day and overnight. Friday there was steady rain and a few downpours that lasted all day long. I arrived home after dark and, exhausted from the usual nightmarish commute, I just headed to bed, absent the energy to notice what might have transpired during Mother Nature's workday. Saturday dawned a bit grey, but the rain that had been predicted had not materialized so I figured it was the perfect opportunity to check things out.

Imagine my utter delight when I came downstairs, opened my front door and was greeted with - a green explosion of life.

Everything had, within the course of twenty-four hours, made a light year's worth of progress and had grown in giddy leaps and bounds. The maples, sycamore and birches were all green. My butterfly bushes' branches were thick with growth and the lovely bright green cork bush was quite, well, bushy! Every patch was solid green now as the hostas had unfurled and the violets multipled, the daylilies were now in full shape and the lemon balm was everywhere in big, gorgeous mountains. The dogwoods' little nubbins of white were great boughs of flowers now, and the euphorbia that had been struggling along bravely after a long, icy winter shot up and spread out and weren a lush, waving sea of shades of green.

I lamented that, despite the dire, rainy forecast for the day, it was breezy and the sun promised to make an appearance. But I had commitments and so, leaving my green Eden behind, I trudged off to Manhattan. Last night I got home after another long Saturday, doing writerly things and hanging out with friends, and it was already past dark. Past the time where I could wander around and explore my newly bounteous property.

But I changed into comfy clothes (I don't know a serious gardener who prefers the discomfort of fancy clothes to the loose and casual comfort of the lazy work clothes, my clothes of choice being sweats and a sweatshirt - as it was still a bit chill on last night's Early May night). It was a perfect temperature for sitting outside to do a bit of reading beneath the front light. I settled into my chair, and though the green had turned into that distinctive gray/black of the night, I could still tell that my Spring surprise had sprung. Sitting in my chair, I felt surrounded. In the best possible way.

Within the tiny circle of light beneath the front bulb, I was surrounded by nature. My trees enveloped me, the scent of newly sprung plants in a moist earth snuggled around me. The branches overhead now allowed only a peek of the starry night sky where, just a week ago, bare limbs barely registered. It was as if a protective canopy had been provided making me feel safe, and ensconced in a magical world, all alone, quiet, and serene as only a big tree can make you feel.

By my feet the clumps of greenness, augmented by my newly liberated houseplants, mounded. And everywhere was the silence of life. I sat for a long while, distracted from my reading, by the power I was experiencing. By the surprise that never ceases to amaze me.

Green, beautiful life.

Bursting Forth!

It is April 15th. That means tax time for all of us here in the US. Fortunately, I've already tucked my returns in the mail and can now turn my attentions to the more important things that are happening this April. To whit, my garden.

For the past few weeks, things have been happening. At the end of March my crocuses bloomed. Following on the heels of my lone witch hazel, these yellow and purple flowers signal that Spring is hovering over the land. Then by Easter my daffodils - dozens of them, large and small, from the buttery yellow to the soft creams and pale ruby flowers, have been blooming in great waves (as I was careful to plant early, mid and late bloomers for just that reason). As they naturalize, every season I wonder if I'm not seeing more of them. This year I know for sure there are more.

Also blooming nicely are my three variets of bluebells - English, Spanish and Virginia. Another little blue harbinger of spring are my grape hyacinths (I can't have too many of those - I'm going to have to plant more this fall so I can have great mounds of them next year!).

The andromeda are blooming (my ancient one has a light crop of blossoms this year, as it was heavy with them last year and it doesn't bloom completely each year). The smaller one, with its pale blush pink blossoms in my rock-walled bed is blooming as well. Both old and new shade gardens have lovely Lenten Roses blooming (one in a deep mauve the other nearly purple black). And hostas are peeping up, day lilies and lilies have started sprouting and my bleeding hearts are all above ground.

Rosebushes have leaf buds, as do the clematis, the dogwood, the butterfly bushes and my redbud and crabapple trees. I am waiting with bated breath for one of my favorites - my Bradford Pear trees, which are both covered with blossom buds. I am on vacation and hope that within the next four days - predicted to be sunny and much warmer following yesterday and today when it rained and never climbed above 50 - they will explode into bloom and allow me to wallow in the gentle, delicate beauty that is on display outside my window.

My work so far has been the drudgery sort. Clean-up, pruning dead winter growth, culling the broken pots and cleaning the lawn furniture, as well as laying down (to date) 26 bags of cedar mulch. There's another 60 bags to go, however, in the side and back yards and my back aches just thinking of it. But other, larger chores await for the remainder of this "spring break" clean up vacation. The shed is a nightmare and the "potting bench" area needs a complete overhaul. I have large rose canes to tie up, I have to clean out the compost and utilize all that excellent brown gold in my various pots and the biggest chore of all is taking down 2, 5' high oaks which have a growth that kills them. Handling the loppers, my ladder and then the saw which will take these 2 trees down is a daunting task, should you wonder why I'm not just getting on with it. Tomorrow is the day.

Every morning I wander about, checking pots, trees, looking to see what new stuff is up (this morning noted the wealth of mints and balms that are mounding up nicely). I have a few die-hard potted rosebushes that have never been planted, and beds to augment and prepare.

But more than the work, I'm yearning for the next 4 days to enjoy the warmth of Spring - that great warm that is not too hot, and if you leave the sunshine you find it is still a bit chilly - but it shines on your face, warms your aching joints and feeds your soul with a warmth and beauty that I've missed all winter long.

I'll be working hard for the next four days but I'm already pleased with my first four days' efforts in the front yard. Everything is neat and clean, newly mulched, pruned and I have 2 bright pink plastic Adirondack chairs alongside a barren white plastic fence that my new neighbors put up - in lieu of the 50 year old everygreen hedge which they ripped out last fall. I've never had to deal with this barren expanse and don't know, exactly, what the difference in sun will be (the hedge was 20 feet tall and the fence is 6) so for now it will be a little sitting area, over which my feathery light green elderberry will arch, making it a bit more secluded and nicely shaded.

And when I've finished my daily tasks for the next four days (I usually start around 8 am and wrap up around 12 or 1 to take advantage of the best parts of the afternoon to be lazy and put the "vacation" in my vacation - especially as it is my first in 5 months), well, that's when I'll relax, have a cold beer, make some great food and work on my writing.

Because my garden is not just my garden. It isn't there just for beauty and the rewards of my herbs and vegetables. It is there to be enjoyed as an oasis, a respite from the insanity of daily commuting and working - indoors all day every day. When I come home from work, I can sit in one of my many chairs - nestled in the nook of the cork bush beneath the sycamore; in one of the chairs inside my picket fence over which arches my Souvenier de la Malmaison roses, perhaps in a pink chair beneath the Bradford pear and the elderberry, or underneath the shade of my 40 year old pair of yew trees (they nestle side by side like lovers). If not in one of those spots, then inside my lattice-fenced in garden room surrounded by rosebushes and pots newly filled with humus and greens seeds, or in my old garden room beneath the maroon redbud tree. And if the sun is setting and I'm feeling the need to warm weary bones? Then I can settle in on the wrought-iron bench that looks West, and watch as the glow of day becomes the cool hue of the night sky.

And it is when I unwind, relax, and become one with nature - breath in the cool air, feel the wind upon my face, and look around atthe fruits of my labors - than I can become calm and contemplative and allow my creative side free reign.

You'd be surprised just how inspiring my garden can be.

And Mother Earth prepares to rest ....

It is that glorious time of year when my garden is ablaze with golds, bright yellows, rich rusts and the amazing red of my Cork bush. In the wind birch leaves drift down, dogwoods drop lazily beneath the branches and my hostas flame.

The sycamore is a more humble fellow, his leaves merely curling up and turning brown, to drop and spread as mulch amid the blazing leaves of more flamboyant types. My elderberry is a feathery lemon yellow fuzz ball, showing off against the deep purple of the oak-leaf hydrangea. Only the ivy and the everygreens - my Leyland cyprus - are still the robust green, recalling warmer, summer days when the wealth of green overflowed the yard.

There is the last splash of color. An errant butterfly bush bloom - dark knight - hangs aver the clematis vine that is yellowing. One last bright red Blaze rose lingers on the arching canes. The montauk daisies still thrive, though the purple loostrife and touch-me-nots are now but distant memories.

As my garden prepares to sleep, seek rest for its Season Opener come spring, I watch and say farewell to the beauty that nestled around me all season. From the brilliant chartreuse shoots that beckoned like a symphony in spring, to the riotous, overgrown secret garden of summer, it is now making a final grandstand before the Earth goes dormant.

Farewell to the beauty of nature. I will wait for you next year.

Sleep well, my friends