Every morning I take the black dog out for a walk. Very often it’s down the lane past the farmers’ fields to the back pasture. Our veggie acres have made it through the recent especially wet weather without too many puddles and are restless right now, anxiously awaiting planting. I know this because I see them practising with weeds. I saw a thistle the other day, dinner plate-sized already, and it’s still only January.
I hate to tell our new farmers how unprepared they are for the onslaught of rampant growth here. Their last farms were in the Okanagan, where things don’t thrive unless they’re watered. Here, we’re beating back the relentless green monsters with sticks. Thinking about how fast things (blackberries) grow, can keep one awake at night. Still, such a problem to have!
The weather has been mild enough for the voles in the pasture to lose their inhibitions. They scurry on their courtship trails within easy sight. I can’t keep the black dog’s focus on walking; her nose is constantly down holes. This is not a good morning’s exercise for me, so recently I’m inclined instead, to go the opposite direction entirely with her, down the sidewalks of our little village of Yarrow. I can run my errand of returning books to the library this way, too.
It’s any gardener’s pleasure to poke a nose into another’s garden to see what’s up and what isn’t. The witch hazels are out, for example, in a garden on the walk down Community Street. And as long as it isn’t raining, one can pass through fragrant clouds of their perfume. Their generosity to bloom in such a way, while it is still winter, is very heartening. Or is it that, lacking competition, they shine in centre stage with little effort? Either way, they’re a gift.
This neighbourhood, like any other of folks with space, has a wide variety in choices of yard use and styles of planting. There’s a wide front lawn of grass with a row of shrubs tucked right up against the house. Then there are houses whose animals live behind the fence – any one of geese, goats, dogs or horses could run up to a fence and hiss, stare, bark or snort a greeting. There are houses whose windows peer through thick, shrubby growth. And houses with garden beds over-flowing with abundance, even at this time of the year.
Since our own village is under construction in every direction, and our current landscaping is subtle shades of mud, I am especially appreciative of any other garden that has plants in it. I’m pleasantly remembered of gardens from my past and triggered to a longing for the gardens of my future.
Some of the gardens down these roads, exhibit the fulsome style I manifest myself, when given half a chance. I’ve been known to be enchanted by a winsome leaf or a shapely stem at nursery and come home with a pot in hand and absolutely no idea where to plant it. The situation of having a fabulous new plant, with no easily apparent place to put it, can send me into fabulous tizzies of delighted moving-around and shoving-in. I marvel at how a purple leaf can sing beside a red stem.
Most normally, I plant and plan more carefully, according my observations of how Mother Nature does it, in undisturbed places. I look at the incredibly perfect serendipity of soil, rocks, moss, trees and shrubs in the woods or beside a stream. Some elements have been there forever; others literally drop out of the sky. A fish carcass left by an eagle can become an oasis of fertility, for example. And a sword fern snuggles up to a cedar when another plant would struggle. A delicate Ladyslipper orchid asserts itself through fallen boughs and clumps of mossed-over bark shards. Not deliberately planted there, but not, not ... if that makes any sense. I am inspired by all that.
When I am most successful, the plants are in favourable growing conditions, with suitable companions, and together, they create a beautiful symphony, with little discordance. I seldom ‘weed’; I plant more. And I’m totally drawn to beauty- my very own definition.
And if my plants don’t bloom, then that’s fine with me too. My favourites have shiny purple stems, roughly striated bark, serrated and filigreed leaves, or tiny new buds in subtle colours that out-shine the showiest of flowers.
On one occasion, in my city woodland garden, I found a rare native orchid, a relative of Western Bloodroot, that I hadn’t knowingly planted, tucked between the ferns. Other times, I’ve had to rip out the goutweed before it smothered and killed everything else. And the little fritillaries I planted in one spot, moved themselves over, quite considerably, to be in a place they liked better. All in all, my garden was dynamic and engaging.... my great pleasure.
I’ve been noticing how the gardener who’s planting this village is going about it. There are solidly planted rock-villagers who’ve been here a long time and have moss around their edges already. Some plant-villagers have landed with roots ready and bloomed immediately. Sometimes, the gardener has wandered around and around, plant in hand, looking for just the right place for it, being careful, taking whatever time is needed. And the gardener prunes and edits too; knowing that a successful, shared, intentional life requires a certain discipline.
This isn’t a place for everyone, but for those of us who suit, we know it’ll settle some more and be the dynamic, engaging, beautiful garden we have in our hearts.
wow, cool. chuck
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