8-24-08
The Sweet Light of
August
There is
poetry in the sweet light of August. It’s the light that
surrounds the garden in a pinkish yellow glow at dawn, and makes
it smolder golden at dusk. It’s sweet enough that I can taste
it in the back of my throat as I walk through the garden. Or,
is that the scent of blackberries filling the air? Throughout
morning and early afternoon, the light lingers just low enough
to almost backlight the red Lobelia tupa, deep pink
Penstemons, bright orange and coral Zinnias, deep mauve Monardas,
and the bluest Gentian I’ve ever seen. These jewel colors of
August fill my heart and I am content that it has been a good
summer.
In the
afternoon, this light makes me want to sit on the lawn, with
straw hat and sunglasses, sipping lemonade as I read a trashy
novel. Better if the lawn is in front of cabins on Lake
Crescent on the Olympic peninsula, far from the intrusion of
cell-phone reception and the beckoning tasks of my own garden.
By August, I am tired of working, negotiating, arranging,
weeding, watering. I want to simply sit and be. The Europeans,
who take the whole month off, have the right idea.
The light
brings in the bright blue Stellar’s Jay, who squawks as he
marauds the feeders. I smile at his harsh cry, glad that he has
returned for a little while. The Flicker’s laughing call rings
across the woods as he swoops in to perch on a Doug Fir trunk.
From the forest, the Pileated Woodpecker’s mightier laugh
announces his intention to command the suet feeder. Even the
Chickadees’ chirps are stronger than usual.
It’s as if the
soft light of August calls forth the robust and commanding
colors and sounds of the garden, supporting them like a sweet
piano accompaniment to an opera singer. The warm air tells me
it is still summer, yet the soft light reminds me that glorious,
golden autumn is coming. The transition between summer and
autumn is made easier by the sweet light of August.
7-23-08
Lessons from the Swainson’s Thrush:
Great Effort and Great Loss
The last remaining baby Swainson’s Thrush
was taken yesterday. Dusty reported its loss when I got home
from work, and I am very sad. The loss of the baby birds and
their nest seems to reflect the losses of last summer.
The mama bird built the
nest twig by twig, and thread by thread, next to the road. It’s
not a very busy road, with only two houses beyond her nest. The
owners of one house were away on vacation, and their housesitter
wasn’t nearly as active as they are. But, the other house
owners employed a worker to clean the edges of the road with
power equipment. He stopped just short of the nest when I
pointed it out to him.
The mother bird sat motionless
with her drab gray-brown back effectively camouflaged in the
shadows of a blackberry thicket. Her greatest risk was in
building the nest low enough that the neighborhood coyote could
smell the babies when the eggs hatched. Normally nocturnal, he
walked through our yard in 8 am sunlight, and took two birds
that day.
We kept vigil and were hopeful
that the remaining baby would survive. It grew more feathers
every day and opened its mouth when it sensed our presence. We
didn’t see her again, but knew the mama bird was feeding him.
When Dusty discovered the nest destroyed and the baby gone, the
disappointment was huge. So much effort, so much hope. Gone.
Forever.
I know how that Swainson’s
Thrush mother bird feels. Last summer, as I was finishing a
major grant application, to fund half the program I manage, I
got the call that my mother was dying. She died within hours of
my sending the finished application to the funder. I had been
writing that grant while meeting other deadlines as work, and
while on a trip to help Dusty drive her frail mother to their
family reunion in Idaho. The personal toll of that grant was
tremendous. Mom died, and then we didn’t get the grant. What
does one do with such huge disappointment and loss?
Perhaps what one does in the
face of loss that huge speaks to the measure of a person. Some
people, like Dusty, take it in stride. She doesn’t expect much
of life, and expects disappointment. She is still recovering
from breast cancer treatment, and many disappointment are minor
by comparison with the last eighteen months. Some people, like
me, are advocates who are indignant when great effort does not
meet with success. Having escaped any serious hardship until
this point in my life, it’s hard not to be surprised by real
disappointment and loss.
One could take a lesson from
the mama bird. She likely has begun her migration south for the
winter. The males stopped providing their up-spiraling songs to
bookend the summer days this past weekend. They will return
late next spring, court, mate, nest and hopefully raise a small
brood. Disappointment and loss will not deter the Swainson’s
Thrush from living her life and fulfilling her purpose.
7-6-08
Swainson’s
Thrush – An Update
She sits motionless on a nest by the road. Her large dark eye
is lined with cream, standing out against her gray-brown head
and back. That eye follows us as we move close, but not too
close, trying to see enough identifying features to determine if
she really is a Swainson’s Thrush. The descriptions in all of
Dusty’s collection of bird books seem to confirm our suspicion.
The nest of fine twigs lined with feathers and soft moss; the
green-blue eggs with brown spots that Dusty saw last week; the
gray-brown back of the bird – all point to a Swainson’s Thrush
nesting.
I’ve never seen a Swainson’s Thrush! A shy bird, it is known by
its up-spiraling song. In early morning it seems a hopeful
announcement of a summer day. Then, in evening, the last song
when darkness falls seems a sorrowful end to a sunny day. To
finally see one of these birds, nesting, is a special honor. I
feel blessed. This truly is a good summer.
6.30.08
Heronswood Memories
I miss Heronswood. In this year of remembering the major
losses of last year, I have been missing the garden all spring.
I was getting ready to lead a spring tour two years ago when
Burpee abruptly closed the nursery and bluntly blocked my way to
the garden forever. It’s a small loss compared to the illness
and death in my family, but it’s a large loss in the patterns of
my life. Of course, I miss the people most of all, and try to
see some of them from time to time. But, I miss the garden, and
that’s what has been lost forever.
This month, many plants from
Heronswood are blooming in my own garden. Several roses
obtained from that garden are blooming in succession. The first
is lovely, graceful Rosa glauca. I bought it for the
blue-gray-green leaves, which make a smoky backdrop all year,
but the single, light pink, one-inch flowers are so sweet and
lovely in the low Pacific Northwest light. I first saw this
Rose in the Heronswood perennial borders, and when I gasped for
the 20th time, I finally bought one for myself.
The rarely encountered Rosa
rugosa ‘Belle Portiere’ is next. A large old specimen stood
behind the employees’ break trailer, greeting us with its
heavenly scent as we came and went from the trailer. When Dan
wanted to redo that bed, three of us split the plant into
pieces, and I took one home. It starts blooming with a flush of
mauve double flowers in June, and fills my backyard with tea
rose scent. In classic Rosa rugosa fashion, it continues
blooming sporadically all summer, stopping only with the first
frost.
Rosa ‘Eddie’s Jewel’
comes next. At Heronswood, it overtook a bed that was usually
forgotten by visitors, until it bloomed in glorious red in
June. Tall, graceful, arching canes tower over my perennial
bed. The single two-inch flowers face skyward along the length
of the canes. They are the shade of red that’s on the blue side
of the spectrum and actually look great next to Rosa glauca’s
blue leaves. I have plans to stake Eddie into an archway across
the path through this bed. These plans are 10 years old, but
they hold, so it must be a good design.
Last to bloom in this bed is
another rose saved from the Heronswood compost pile. When
Randel the gardener announced one day that he was removing
several roses from the arbor, we raced to see what we could take
home. ‘The Fairy’ has large bouquets of one-inch, palest pink
single flowers on long, graceful canes that reach far. Some
years, the canes slap our faces as we pass by on the lawn. This
year, they intermingle with Rosa glauca, giving that rose
the illusion of immediate rebloom. The apple green leaves of
‘The Fairy’s’ canes give it away amongst R. glauca’s
blue.
Roses were not Heronswood’s
specialty. In my garden filled with memorial beds honoring
people I’ve lost, and many, many Heronswood plants all around, I
am surprised to find the roses evoke some of my fondest
Heronswood memories. I relish the pieces of that garden in my
own when it is filled with their color and scent.
6-15-08
The Swainson’s Thrush
The
Swainson’s Thrush came back early this year. On that 80o
day in May, when we hoped summer had arrived and we all planted
tomatoes and basil, I heard its up-spiraling song in the
afternoon. I welcomed the song with delight and relief. It has
been quite a year, beginning with Dusty’s breast cancer
diagnosis 18 months ago. She is finally done with treatment,
has hair and energy, and my job as care-taker has diminished to
simple sympathy. The Swainson’s Thrush seems to celebrate our
return to a simple life of working, feeding the birds,
gardening, welcoming friends to our garden. It will be a good
summer.
6-15-08
Waiting for Summer
The
spring of 2008 has been unusual. No, really. All the
weathermen admit it. All the people on the bus talk about it.
And, we gardeners are simply frustrated. One year, I planted
containers with annual on the 4th of July, and felt I
had missed out. This year, I planted them on Memorial Day, and
not only are they languishing in the cold, they are drowning in
all the rain that has fallen during the coldest June in memory,
dubbed “Junuary” by the TV weather reporters.
I have
waited for summer since I moved to the Pacific Northwest 19
years ago, since that first summer, when I looked up in
September and asked, “did I miss it?” Some years, it did
arrive, in 85 o–plus days during July and August. On
those sunny, cloudless days, you can believe the song that “the
bluest skies you’ve ever seen are in Seattle.” But, many years,
sun provokes mole-like blinking and eye-rubbing, and our bare
legs can light up the night.
But this
year is different. It snowed on Snoqualmie Pass on June __.
The air has been so cold, the Swainson’s Thrush left already,
thinking summer is over. I sure hope it returns when the warm
temperatures arrive.
In the
meantime, I’m taking advantage of the cool temperatures to do
heavy gardening work: making new beds, hauling compost, digging
out weeds and grass, planting new trees and perennials. In the
cold, I don’t overheat, and the rain waters in my new
plantings.
Gardening
is a hopeful endeavor. This year, I am able to hang onto the
hope for this year for longer than usual, as spring lingers and
summer waits to arrive.
4-14-08
Plant-Exploring on Nisyros
After my perfect introduction
to Greece on a morning walk in the village, I drove down to the
caldera of Nisyros’ volcano, to meet my friends. They had spent
the morning hiking down the hillside from Nikiá, identifying
wildflowers. They welcomed me back into their circle, and were
excited to share the flowers they had found, as we made our way
back up the side of the volcano to another village for our
mid-afternoon main meal. We’d drive a few hundred feet, someone
would exclaim, and we’d stop to explore a meadow, a steep
hillside or a side-road.
Exploring wildflowers was the
reason for this trip. Barbara had arranged for us to meet and
botanize with George Sfikas, an expert in Greek wildflowers. He
had never botanized on Nisyros and was looking for a couple of
plants endemic to the island. We had never botanized in Greece,
and were amazed to see everything. I had never botanized
anywhere, and was thrilled to see familiar garden plants in the
wild.
George would spy something and get close to
it. He would consult his reference book, make notes and begin
taking photos. We would gather around him, asking questions.
If he said more than the name of the plant, our resident Greek
friends would translate for us. Alice consulted her reference
pocket edition of Greek wildflowers with each new flower we
encountered. Ann kept meticulous notes as she took photos of
everything that George showed us. All of us took photos of the
plants, of each other, of the surrounding glorious hillsides,
trying to capture the experience of the bright spring sunshine,
the crisp air, the Greek blue sky and the turquoise Aegean Sea
in the background. But the plants were the focus of the day.
The first, and most exciting
find was Mandragora autumnalis (Mandrake,
Mandhragóra). As I was
exclaiming over their good fortune to have seen Mandragora, Ann
D. was pointing out a specimen at my feet. How thrilling to see
this plant! The rosettes of huge, paddle shaped, wavy leaves
were tucked into pockets where a few drops of water might
collect, next to a stone or in a slight depression in the earth
or along a stone wall. The large leaves looked as delectable as
lettuce, but, like rhubarb, their poison is legendary. It
blooms in December, so most of the plants we saw held either
shriveled flowers, or green 2” balls of early fruit that would
ripen to orange in summer. Later in the week, we did discover
late flowers, with pale lavender petals held like a cup on thick
stalks coming from the center of the rosette. Extinct on the
mainland, this plant is even more special for its ubiquitous
existence on Nisyros’ hillsides.
Daisies carpeted the hillside
terraces. My friends identified some of them as Anthemis
chia (Anthemis,
Papoúni, Agriomargaríta),
one-inch daisies with clear white petals surrounding a lemon
yellow center, on thin stalks above chrysanthemum-like leaves.
I asked about another clear white flower, which they identified
as Tordylium apulum (Tordylium,
Kafkalíthra.) Each florette
was a whorl of white, heart-shaped petals that whirled like
propellers around a cluster of tight flower buds. These were
arranged in a corymb containing 8 or so florettes, above bright
green leaves. Both the Anthemis and the Tordylium grew in
sheets below olive trees on the hillside terraces, creating a
white and green carpet below the gray-green trees, on gray and
white rock walls. The tapestry of colors and textures below the
Greek blue sky was refreshing, peaceful, profound. I hold that
image when I meditate.
Appearing here and there within
the olive groves, a small, round-crowned tree created a hazy
pinkish-yellow cloud with its newly emerging leaves. George
told us it is Pistacia atlantica (Pistachio,
Phistikiá), the source of
pistachios, used in baklava and other wonderful Greek sweet
pastries. We all noted the name, hoping to grow it at home.
In a crevice on a rock wall grew
Umbilicus horizontalis (Pennywort,
Helonovótano), the round leaves
looking like a gray-green Saxifrage, but thicker and more
succulent. The salmon pink spikey inflorescence marched round
pink beads up and around a pink stalk, a little rough phallic
symbol emerging from the crevice between two rocks.
Euphorbia rigida (Spurge,
Galatsídha) grew in the road
verges, where gravel met sandy soil. Our headlights had
illuminated its chartreuse flowers above whorls of gray-green
linear leaves, on the evening we drove up the hill to Nikiá from
the port where our boat had landed. George told us it is
actually an introduced plant, which self-sowed all over the
island. It didn’t yet seem to be crowding out the native
plants, so it seemed to be a happy accident.
On the hillsides, red poppies
grew among other wildflowers. Looking like Oriental Poppies,
Papaver nigrotinctum had bright red petals, with a black
center. The more delicate, papery, red Papaver rhoeas
(Corn Poppy,
Paparoúna) grew so thickly on
some hillsides, I thought I was on the road to Oz.
Blue and purple flowers also
caught our eyes. Anagalis foemina (Blue Pimpernel)
displayed small one-inch, sky-blue petals, with a pink-glowing
center surrounding a yellow pistil, terminating branches of
spring-green soft leaves. In meadows among the daisies,
Muscari comosum (Tassel Hyacinth,
Volvós) sported purple tufts
above the usual spike of purple buds. (The bulbs are prepared
like pickled onions as a delicacy in Greece.) Lavandula
stoechas (Greek or Spanish Lavender,
Levánda) grew in sandy soil, on
rocky slopes and road verges, its deep purple square spike below
pale lavender “rabbit ears” waving above gray-green linear
leaves. In early spring sunlight, when every color seems to
glow, these blue flowers sparkled, like jewels.
Hiking, note-taking,
translating, taking in new plants and experiences and trying to
remember them, trying to understand the language, and succumbing
like Dorothy to the Wicked Witch’s poppies – no wonder we were
exhausted every night!
4-14-08
A
Morning Walk in Nikiá
That first morning, I awoke to a sulfur
smell, and the sound of my friends preparing to hike down to the
caldera. I wanted to stay in the village to take time getting
oriented before jumping into the frenzy of activity. After six
intense years of personal hardships, I had been exploring my own
personal volcano, and a few quiet hours alone were welcome
compensation.
I ventured into the clear
spring sunshine with camera in hand and 5 Greek words in my
head, to explore the quiet village. The primary lane of Nikiá
is narrow, and defined by whitewashed, attached 2-story houses,
each with a front step leading from the lane directly into the
house. Some were decorated with simple pots of flowers on
either side of the door. One was festooned with vines trailing
from the balcony and so many pots of flowers the collection had
crossed the lane to embellish the wall of a neighbor.
The gardener, Eleanor, came out of her
front door right into my path. I was shy, but could not be rude
to the first Greek person I encountered! We began an
English-Greek introductory exchange about her flowers. Then,
she invited me into her front room filled with knickknacks and a
whispering TV. She offered candy from a glass dish.
Apologizing for my poor mastery of Greek, I thanked her, asking
if I had the right word: “Epharísto?” She taught me to say:
“Epharistó polí;” “Thank you very much.” From the village
grapevine, Eleanor knew I was part of “To group” who had arrived
to stay at the home of her neighbors. She was pleased to be one
of the first on the island to greet “To group,” and I was
delighted to have met my first Greek acquaintance.
Still shy and trying to get my
bearings, I left Eleanor’s and continued walking. The sound of
my footsteps on stone ricocheted between the whitewashed houses
on the narrow lane. I stopped to savor a lemon tree in full
bloom. Citrus perfume combined with the aroma of soap under
balconies where laundry was hanging in the sunshine. The sun
warmed my face in the cool air when I moved from shadows into
the sunny side of the lane. I snapped a picture of two rickety
baby strollers, one with a wheel missing, which were parked on a
trash-strewn patio next to the village “grocery store.”
Walking back
to the house, I glimpsed a black-clad grandmother entering her
house, and then greeted an older gentleman fingering a string of
beads as he sat by the front door in the sunshine. I understood
his sign language as he asked in Greek if I was one of “To
Group”. I told him my name and he told me his, shortening it to
Jerry when I couldn’t understand his longer version. I
repeated, “Jerry,” and then, still shy, was at a loss about what
to say next. We smiled at each other, and I continued walking.
Each new
encounter with a villager increased confidence in my ability to
navigate the experience of being a stranger in someone else’s
country. Farther down the lane, I greeted two men in morning
conversation. After confirming that I was part of “To Group,”
they asked if I was from America. One declared, “100% of the
people in Nikiá has been to America, to Astoria!” I immediately
thought of Astoria, Oregon, at the mouth of the Columbia River,
and planned to drive to Astoria when I got home, to find the
people from Nikiá. When I realized they meant Astoria, New
York, on Long Island, I saw that I still had much to learn about
the Greek people.
I was ready to drive down to the caldera to
join my friends. I greeted two young men who were tinkering
with a motorbike before turning my attention to starting the
rental car and putting it into reverse. Despite all efforts, I
could not get it into reverse. The young men saw my trouble and
came to offer assistance, but they couldn’t get it into reverse
either. Using sign language, a few English words and much
Greek, they offered to push me backwards out of the parking
spot. I accepted their help, and then, with a very American
accented “Epharísto”, I putt-putted away down the hill. My
first morning in Greece, experienced as part of “To Group,” but
alone, was a perfect introduction.
2.12.08
Release
Winter
had us in its grip: frozen puddles in the road; dog’s water
bowl frozen solid, 6” deep; Rhododendron leaves drooped, huddled
close to the stem as if for warmth. Overcast skies and
forecasts of snow scare me into running for the week’s groceries
on a Saturday night.
Sunday
dawns sunny and cloudless, with temperatures just above
freezing. It feels like, overnight, we’ve been released from
winter, we’ve escaped. But snow arrives Sunday night, beginning
two weeks of treacherous driving on icy mornings. I am
terrified and weary of the danger, and almost threaten to move
to a tropical climate.
Inevitably, inexorably, February warms. In fact, by mid-month,
it is late winter and finally warm enough to cast turtlenecks to
the back of the drawer. Snowdrops are opening clear white; the
ones with glaucous leaves are most crystalline. Spears of
daffodils promise yellow cheer in a few weeks, and I begin to
believe that spring will come.
A metaphor
for our past year… 2007 was winter, when we put one foot in
front of the other, trying not to slip on the treacherous road.
We moved through our life, hoping each day would bring relief
from the terror and the hard road of treatment. A little relief
might come, respite maybe, but no release from the winter of our
days. A year later, still taking Herceptin, Dusty is
discouraged by the all-pervasive, persistent fatigue it causes.
I remind her that there is an end to this year and a half – just
a handful of treatments left. She consults the calendar and
announces with relief in her voice, “only three!” Hope is
allowed again, and we begin to believe that true release will
come.
2.6.08
Terror
I tremble
with terror, creeping along icy roads this winter. I am
perplexed by the magnitude of this feeling because I
successfully maneuvered through seven winters of snowy roads in
Colorado and Utah, and managed another few winter road trips in
Utah and Idaho. Then, reflecting on last winter, a revelation:
this year’s ice triggers a delayed reaction to last year’s
terror over Dusty’s breast cancer and the early days of
treatment. There was no room to feel the terror last year
because we were simply coping with each day’s new challenge,
praying for survival.
Checking
email at home, I find out one of the couples from the Cancer
Caregivers’ Support Group has just survived risky surgery for
the husband’s brain tumor. Terror rears its magnificent,
commanding head again. And, the wife’s email reflects the
caregivers’ survival instinct: she puts one foot in front of
the other, praying for survival, clutching hopeful optimism,
cheering him on. And, thanking her friends for their support
and prayers. We carry the burden of terror that she has no room
or time to feel right now.
Last
spring, Dusty discovered a hawk with a motionless Mallard duck
in its talons in our back yard. Not wishing to see mutilation
and violent death, she ran outside screaming, “Let go! Let
go!” Amazingly, the hawk released its grip for a second, and
even more amazingly, the duck shook its head and took flight.
We sensed its terror as it lumbered upward towards the pond.
Gaining altitude, the duck replaced its terror with
confidence. Then, it flew higher with firm resolve, and escaped
the powerful hawk that followed close behind.
As we take
up the burden of terror from our caregiving friends, we honor
their firm resolve, and they gain the confidence they need to
try to escape death which follows so close behind.
1.13.08
The year’s first pruning ritual
Sun! With
temperatures requiring only 2 layers, it’s almost balmy!
Grabbing gloves, Felcos, loppers and pruning saw, I bust out of
the stuffy house, and head for the driveway beds. Shrubs whose
exhuberant summer growth has been clawing at the cars for months
are finally controlled with a few judicious chops. Branches
damaged by last week’s heavy wet snow are carefully pruned and
restored. Old Hellebore leaves are removed, to reveal unfurling
buds of pink and purple. The threads of yellow and orange
Withchazel flowers sparkle in the winter sun. Their scent
affirms the sweetness of the day. Squirrels chatter and chase
each other through the trees, while chickadees and juncos
twitter amongst the salal. Hugging 6-foot-long armloads of
branches and dragging them to the brush pile, I notice my body
is grateful to be moving again after weeks spent indoors.
A Sunday
afternoon of winter pruning restores my equilibrium. The
healing ritual leaves me fulfilled and as grateful as the
garden. I am ready to meet life’s responsibilities while
anticipating spring’s new growth.
1.7.08
Snow
I am inconvenienced. 2” makes the driveway
slickery, the dirt road slightly treacherous, and the county
road downright scary. So, I wait for the later ferry. In case
I slide into a ditch, I want to do it in daylight. Passing the
snowplow, I drive into rain, and the remainder of the commute is
perfectly safe.
Odd how a
little frozen water can affect everything. We are so dependent
on the predictable rain, and I am tired of a little snow. But,
after a year like 2007, when everything was unpredictable, I am
fatigued by the minor suspense of things like snow. I don’t
want any more surprises, or unanswered questions about the
future. I want to know what will happen tomorrow. I want
assurances that I and those I love are going to live long, full,
happy lives, without distress or illness.
1.2.08
Bird sightings, from the kitchen window
A few days
ago, Dusty announced the return of the Varied Thrush. I don’t
know when it left; I never really noticed its absence this
fall, like I do the departure of the Swainson’s Thrush in
summer. Perhaps because the Varied, while showy in its russet
and black tuxedo, is quiet. On the other hand, the Swainson’s
is hidden, but persistently sings its haunting song that echoes
through the woods at the end of every early summer day.
Early
today, I heard the brash call of the Pileated Woodpecker. In
later morning, Dusty called from the kitchen window, “Omigod!
It’s the Omigod Woodpecker at the suet feeder!” Then, like an
excited sports announcer she reported the presence of a hawk
that appeared to be hunting the Pileated. “The hawk boldly
invaded the feeding sanctuary! It terrified all the little
birds, any they’ve flown away! Now, the hawk is slowly and
calmly following the Pileated as it escapes into the north
woods.”
Wild
Kingdom, from our kitchen window.
1/1/2008
It is winter proper;
the cold weather, such as it is, has come to stay. I bloom
indoors in the winter like a forced forsythia; I come in to come
out. At night I read and write, and things I have never
understood become clear; I reap the harvest of the rest of the
year’s planting.
Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker
Creek
2007
ended cold as a refrigerator here in Kitsap County. Warm
indoors, I make hopeful plans for a sunny and great 2008.
Christmas
bestowed new garden books, and, inspired, I sketch new beds and
pathways. I calculate how many tons of paving stones to order
and when they should be delivered. I scribble ambitious lists
of colorful vegetables to order from seed catalogs that have
been arriving daily for weeks. Other lists enumerate the
unusual annuals I plan to grow this year, remembering that
gardening is always an experiment.
Reflecting
on 2007, I resolve to capture its lessons in the garden. I’ve
already begun, by creating a new bed to honor Mom who died in
July. I look forward to seeing its first white blooms on the
anniversary of her death next July.
2007 will
be filled with anniversaries of my partner’s breast cancer
treatment journey, and I plan to mark them with hopeful garden
rituals. The first of these involves light. While January is
notoriously dark here in the Pacific Northwest, every day after
the Solstice gets perceptibly longer. I have added garlands of
tiny white lights to the ropes of lights wrapped around the deck
railing for Christmas. On refrigerator-cold January nights,
they bring hope for a sunnier time in the garden. Hope
was the word for 2007.
As I survey the
frozen, apparently dead winter garden, it suddenly becomes clear
that healing is the word for 2008.
