We've already had a couple of unseasonal heat waves. The creek is the lowest I have ever seen it in the five years I have been able to see it, since removing the blackberry thatch. I had to use the pick axe to make a hole to plant my glory vine…the clay soil was so thoroughly dry...how the heck will I keep that watered in August?
Enough signs are piling up for all of us to realize that concerns about water are escalating and finally reaching the consciousness of the general population, not only the environmentalists and the tree huggers (like me). The inconvenience of having to pay exorbidant rates for water painfully reminds us of several things. Big business (the guys who own the taps) will be there to take your money for what used to be called a "natural" resource. (It is no longer "natural" when it has to be extracted from very far away and piped in to the wastelands of our concrete polluted cities.)
When contemplating this awful fix we're in, I am often reminded of the cautionary tale told so well in the animated movie, "Rango"…easy to digest, compared to a "dry" (pun intended) documentary loaded with statistics. The movie relates with great good humor and fabulous characters, right from the opening sequence when Rango, a spacey little gecko living in a make-believe world of lizard heaven, is rudely jarred into reality, along with his buddy a goldfish, onto the tarmac in a ceaselessly cruel desert…with no water. I feel like Rango, right now, watching my garden dry up just as the warmth is encouraging everything to grow and reproduce. What to do?
Well, I'm a big believer in "knowledge is power", so once I acknowledged the issue, learning how to adjust to this reality is the next order of business. Yeah, its like a twelve step program for hortiholics.
Acknowledge you have a problem. ( I actually have several problems:)
For two years in a row (I'm a slow learner), I called the water company to complain about my extremely high summer bills. I am being penalized for growing my own food, I said. I should be getting a rebate! I should at least be able to set up "level billing", to average out the bill annually instead of a few giant bills in the summer. They said "no dice" on either suggestion, but they would send a water conservation consultant to my property to assess the situation. I readily agreed, being certain that I was doing everything an intelligent person could do to use water carefully. I have a rain barrel, don't I?
Problem No. 1: EXTREMELY HIGH WATER BILLS IN SUMMER
The water conservation consultant was a nice man named Jim who grew vegetables also. He loved my garden, and had great patience while I carried on about my brassicas and the challenges of growing carrots. By the time we were shaking hands good-bye-nice-to-meet-you, I had learned several useful things that I had blindly, innocently, done to shoot myself in the foot.
I only have two outside water faucets attached to the house, which must serve the entire 1/2 acre property until I can afford to have more water faucets installed, closer to the gardens, which may be more than 100 feet from the water source. Hence, I have had quite a combination of splitters, hoses, watering wands, sprinklers, soaker hoses, water barrels, and rills in an attempt to get water where I need it. This effort has been a miserable failure for several reasons, and, if I forgot to turn off the spigot, the whole damn thing might leak!
Problem No. 2: POOR WATER DELIVERY SYSTEM
At the height of the summer drought (in years past that has been between July 4 and September 15, nowadays this seems to be extending in both directions by about 30 days!), I have been watering my vegetable "hot pots" at least daily, sometimes twice a day. The position of these pots, on a southwest- facing concrete pad, is excellent for rapid and extended growth of heat-loving tomatoes and peppers, but they suck up water like a sponge. I have many plants in containers besides vegetables, maybe a couple of hundred or so (I know, I am also a "pot-a-holic"), artfully arranged all around the perimeter of the house, deck, gravel terrace, zen courtyard, woodland and scree garden. You get the picture…everywhere. Many of these need watering almost every day during the dry months, too, especially if they are in full sun.
Problem No. 3: CONTAINERS NEED SUPPLIMENTAL WATER.
Additionally, when I first got started gardening here, I fell in love with every woodlander I saw. I was determined to recreate what I had experienced as a child in the woods of Washington state: the mystic euphoria of fairy bells in the woods, dogwood blossoms floating in the understory of giant fir trees, and the magic of mushrooms and wild ferns in the forest duff. I bought and planted hundreds of luscious (by definition, lush, and needs moist soil) plants to supplement the native flora: Hydrangea, hosta, more ferns especially. I did not realize that my lovely woodland, so moist in early spring, would become a dusty dry parched wasteland in August. No wonder the "spring ephemerals" disappear in summer…they sleep away the drought!
Problem No. 4: WATER-THIRSTY PLANTS NEED SUPPLIMENTAL WATER…YOU HAVE TOO MANY IN THE WRONG PLACE.
I am now working on all four (this is a very unlucky number for the Japanese…) problems and I am hopeful that I can master them! Stay tuned to hear about my SOLUTIONS!
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Saturday, April 26, 2014
Did I Mention that Chartreuse is My Favorite Color?
As usual, long about now, I am reveling in the abundance of hopeful, fecund, joyous chartreuse everywhere I look. I've read more than once in garden design books that "one" (English garden books, after all) should be careful not to "overdo" certain colors, or perhaps variegated leaves, or perhaps certain textures. I'm in total agreement with that, as an often-bewildered designer…with one exception. I can never seem to get enough chartreuse.
Surely I could, I suppose, but the backdrop of what I do here are these hulking huge doug firs, Sitka spruce and rampant laurel hedges. The perfect dark foil for the utter abandon with which I add the vigor of yellow-gold.
This time of the year, in addition to all that I have added to the palette, the new spring growth on even the most somber and darkest greens is erupting from every leaf tip and branch to add to the revelry.
For me, chartreuse is the new neutral. It goes with everything! There was a time when I thought the vibrating cacophony of fuchsia and chartreuse would make me dizzy just to imagine it, but at the moment I am intrigued by the bergenia 'Eroica' and the berberis 'Pow Wow' as they dance in the Long Bed.
Another combo often avoided is violet and chartreuse. In New Orleans, purple, green and gold are associated with Mardi Gras, and many folks down there will actually paint their houses, decorate their Christmas trees and dress for a party in this bold combination. The King of Mardi Gras, Rex, over a hundred years ago, decreed them his colors and the entire city has made them the "official" colors of the season. As a floral designer working there, I dreaded the Mardi Gras season which stretched from Twelfth Night in January all the way to the day before Ash Wednesday (hence, "fat" Tuesday). Every ball, wedding, dinner dance, debutante party, convention buffet and even funeral casket sprays were purple, green and gold at the determined request of the client (or his family in the latter case!). Yes, New Orleans is a bastion of glittering, gleaming, bodacious and brash questionable taste, but we tolerate and actually enjoy this idiosyncrasy in the Big Easy…
Perhaps, despite myself, my long roots in New Orleans allow me find violet and chartreuse appealing. Yes, I know they are compliments on the great theoretical color wheel, and the eye comfortably associates the two, but something magic happens in my garden when the allium and Japanese forest grass harmonize in the Long Bed,
Many of these charming plants will mellow out into a much more respectable green as the spring and summer proceed, but at this moment, when everything is new, I celebrate my best, most favorite color, in the whole wide world! Yay for chartreuse!
Surely I could, I suppose, but the backdrop of what I do here are these hulking huge doug firs, Sitka spruce and rampant laurel hedges. The perfect dark foil for the utter abandon with which I add the vigor of yellow-gold.
This time of the year, in addition to all that I have added to the palette, the new spring growth on even the most somber and darkest greens is erupting from every leaf tip and branch to add to the revelry.
For me, chartreuse is the new neutral. It goes with everything! There was a time when I thought the vibrating cacophony of fuchsia and chartreuse would make me dizzy just to imagine it, but at the moment I am intrigued by the bergenia 'Eroica' and the berberis 'Pow Wow' as they dance in the Long Bed.
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| yes, 'Eroica' is in your face, but she makes you smile! |
Another combo often avoided is violet and chartreuse. In New Orleans, purple, green and gold are associated with Mardi Gras, and many folks down there will actually paint their houses, decorate their Christmas trees and dress for a party in this bold combination. The King of Mardi Gras, Rex, over a hundred years ago, decreed them his colors and the entire city has made them the "official" colors of the season. As a floral designer working there, I dreaded the Mardi Gras season which stretched from Twelfth Night in January all the way to the day before Ash Wednesday (hence, "fat" Tuesday). Every ball, wedding, dinner dance, debutante party, convention buffet and even funeral casket sprays were purple, green and gold at the determined request of the client (or his family in the latter case!). Yes, New Orleans is a bastion of glittering, gleaming, bodacious and brash questionable taste, but we tolerate and actually enjoy this idiosyncrasy in the Big Easy…
Perhaps, despite myself, my long roots in New Orleans allow me find violet and chartreuse appealing. Yes, I know they are compliments on the great theoretical color wheel, and the eye comfortably associates the two, but something magic happens in my garden when the allium and Japanese forest grass harmonize in the Long Bed,
…and the brunnera blooms and the hosta 'Blackfoot' (which also blooms violet!) buddy up.
Many of these charming plants will mellow out into a much more respectable green as the spring and summer proceed, but at this moment, when everything is new, I celebrate my best, most favorite color, in the whole wide world! Yay for chartreuse!
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| Taxus baccata 'Nana Arborescens' |
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| Acer palmatum 'Tsuma Gaki' |
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| euphorbia groundcover |
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| golden hypericum just emerging |
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| Acer palmatum 'Ghost Dancer' |
Friday, April 25, 2014
Weeds and Seeds
...it's a funny moment when the dance in the garden is a constant contrapunto of the pulling of weeds and the planting of seeds. I have to get the weeds sorted out before I can plant the seeds. But the labor is not so crisply defined. Those weedlings may indeed be seedlings of something I want. How sharp have I gotten to tell by that cotyledon who's a keeper and who's a bodacious thug? Now's the time to root all this out. A few weeks from now, the window of opportunity will close, and the now-fluffy soil will tighten up, the foraging roots will wander, and my desirables will become languishing weaklings instead of the robust beauties making a grand display. Meanwhile, as I scratch my head in wonderment, I am surrounded by unidentified green stuff jumping up out of the ground. I can practically hear the subtle snapping sound of those little leaves unfurling...
Many of these guys I now know intimately, and have devised strategy after strategy to assume control. Fat chance. This garden thing is relative to one's ability to control anything in life. How far do you want to go before you succumb to the inevitable? Stuff happens. Some of us carry the burden of way too much stress trying to control things. I stopped wearing a watch eight years ago and still get where I need to go on time. It was a good lesson for me. I must apply this sensibility to weeds and seeds.
Italicum pictum is my most vivid example of a battle gone bad. When I cleared what is now the middle terrace of my garden from waist-high blackberry and ivy, I found a thriving community of these little buggers just waiting for some sunlight. I thought the lovely succulent arrow-shaped leaves were quite refreshing, after the horrible thorny thatch of blackberry canes. They were beautifully marbled, then produced a curious spathe in my favorite color chartreuse, and later morphed into a colorful spike of red berries. That first year I foolishly planted the seeds here and there to encourage them to spread...oh Goddess...what did I do? The more blackberry and ivy I cleared, all the way down to the creek, the more italicum pictum sprouted up. I should have known I was in trouble when I casually mentioned to Dan Hinkley at a social event that I was curious about its range...he got a strange look in his eye then said, "Be careful".
I spent many hours this winter browsing catalogues, making lists, ordering unusual seeds (Jamaican burr gherkins???) and then devising this wonderfully intricate chart to plant these seeds in my garden on the precise lunar and astrological date to maximize germination. I listed the germination temperature, the days required for germination, the days likely to maturity, the necessary rotation cycle with the other plants in the mix. Many many facts came into play to help me control the situation to my advantage. Then a little unanticipated "jazz" entered the scene...on planting day perhaps I was otherwise engaged, or I forgot to buy the right seedling mix, or the grow lights weren't working, or ...it was raining, you name it...the perfect day came and went. I planted anyway. The seeds emerged anyway. And so it goes.
I try to remember what I do right each year, rather than belabor the amended plans. I try to jot down in my journal or my field notebook (If I can remember to put it in my pocket) what worked well. For example, I wish I had noted the date I planted the 'Drama Queen' poppies...they came up by the thousands! On the other hand, the other varieties I planted the same day, in other areas of the garden are completely missing in action. I've had great success with many types of beans and have therefore, made a great study of their diversity of habit and dozens of ways to prepare them. This year I plan to plant fifteen varieties! Peas, however, continue to elude me…often too early or too late planted…much more needy in their requirements.
The peas I will replant. The italicum pictum will come back, and I will yank them out where they obscure my lily shoots or smother the erythronium and convallaris (watch out! a thug replacing a thug!!??)
The dance goes on.
Many of these guys I now know intimately, and have devised strategy after strategy to assume control. Fat chance. This garden thing is relative to one's ability to control anything in life. How far do you want to go before you succumb to the inevitable? Stuff happens. Some of us carry the burden of way too much stress trying to control things. I stopped wearing a watch eight years ago and still get where I need to go on time. It was a good lesson for me. I must apply this sensibility to weeds and seeds.
 |
| Italicum pictum…beware |
I spent many hours this winter browsing catalogues, making lists, ordering unusual seeds (Jamaican burr gherkins???) and then devising this wonderfully intricate chart to plant these seeds in my garden on the precise lunar and astrological date to maximize germination. I listed the germination temperature, the days required for germination, the days likely to maturity, the necessary rotation cycle with the other plants in the mix. Many many facts came into play to help me control the situation to my advantage. Then a little unanticipated "jazz" entered the scene...on planting day perhaps I was otherwise engaged, or I forgot to buy the right seedling mix, or the grow lights weren't working, or ...it was raining, you name it...the perfect day came and went. I planted anyway. The seeds emerged anyway. And so it goes.
I try to remember what I do right each year, rather than belabor the amended plans. I try to jot down in my journal or my field notebook (If I can remember to put it in my pocket) what worked well. For example, I wish I had noted the date I planted the 'Drama Queen' poppies...they came up by the thousands! On the other hand, the other varieties I planted the same day, in other areas of the garden are completely missing in action. I've had great success with many types of beans and have therefore, made a great study of their diversity of habit and dozens of ways to prepare them. This year I plan to plant fifteen varieties! Peas, however, continue to elude me…often too early or too late planted…much more needy in their requirements.
The peas I will replant. The italicum pictum will come back, and I will yank them out where they obscure my lily shoots or smother the erythronium and convallaris (watch out! a thug replacing a thug!!??)
The dance goes on.
Thursday, March 13, 2014
Hope Springs Eternal
...so it seems everybody from Stephen King to Mixtapes quotes Alexander Pope, 18th century English poet, including me. "Hope springs eternal"... it is a pretty succinct little phrase that crisply sums up the feeling, I would say. I am forever grateful that somehow my genetic gumbo includes a goodly dash of the stuff called "hope" and I can bounce back from life's slippery slopes pretty quickly.
Right now I am making abundant deposits in my repository of hope, by focusing on the quintessentially hopeful wonder of early spring, and the annual bliss that arrives on my doorstep along with the daffodils. Nothing that has ever happened in the past invades this moment to mar the stunning sensation thrumming through my body and spirit. It helps considerably, of course, that the sun is shining today, streaming through my dirty east facing windows (nothing can mar my view, I adjust to the "far" sight!). The implied warmth (it's actually 39 degrees out there) highlights the amazing buds on the acers, the brilliant new chartreuse growth on the conifers and the topiaries, and the blades of new grass reaching for the warmth and the light.
These few weeks are priceless for infusing my spirit with an energy that comes from nowhere else. It's a precious thing that occurs only now, and gets added to my arsenal of superpower tools to make anything possible. I must be alert to every leaf and bud and ray of sun, and feel the pulsing life therein. The old folks talk about the seeds "jumping out of the ground". This is the moment. I must jump with them. Yes, the sap is definitely rising!
There's so much to do. I have moved from the indolence of my winter cave to sniff the air and wonder at the sweet scents wafting my way. It's a treasure hunt to find the sources, some familiar (the indian plum and daphnes, perfect) and the newcomers, finally old enough to bloom (edgeworthia, branching nicely). The search also reveals expectation...the buds of pleasures to come.
If for some reason we can't remember how to do "hope", Mother Nature in all her manifestations enchants us right now (listen! look!) and demands that we cultivate the seedling named hope.
Right now I am making abundant deposits in my repository of hope, by focusing on the quintessentially hopeful wonder of early spring, and the annual bliss that arrives on my doorstep along with the daffodils. Nothing that has ever happened in the past invades this moment to mar the stunning sensation thrumming through my body and spirit. It helps considerably, of course, that the sun is shining today, streaming through my dirty east facing windows (nothing can mar my view, I adjust to the "far" sight!). The implied warmth (it's actually 39 degrees out there) highlights the amazing buds on the acers, the brilliant new chartreuse growth on the conifers and the topiaries, and the blades of new grass reaching for the warmth and the light.
These few weeks are priceless for infusing my spirit with an energy that comes from nowhere else. It's a precious thing that occurs only now, and gets added to my arsenal of superpower tools to make anything possible. I must be alert to every leaf and bud and ray of sun, and feel the pulsing life therein. The old folks talk about the seeds "jumping out of the ground". This is the moment. I must jump with them. Yes, the sap is definitely rising!
There's so much to do. I have moved from the indolence of my winter cave to sniff the air and wonder at the sweet scents wafting my way. It's a treasure hunt to find the sources, some familiar (the indian plum and daphnes, perfect) and the newcomers, finally old enough to bloom (edgeworthia, branching nicely). The search also reveals expectation...the buds of pleasures to come.
If for some reason we can't remember how to do "hope", Mother Nature in all her manifestations enchants us right now (listen! look!) and demands that we cultivate the seedling named hope.
Monday, February 10, 2014
Wait for it...wait for it...wait for it...
Today is the fifth day I am looking out of my studio window at snow. It is slowly melting, and big plops of wet snow are falling from the doug firs in the woodland. Each morning for at least the last couple of days, I have taken a measure of my ability to remain indoors and stay calm. The first couple of days, the novelty and excitement of this rare snow event kept me occupied. I trudged out to get the mail, to take pictures of the beautiful white serene scene, to knock the accumulation off the arbor vitae hedge I hate so much, to pick up the Sunday New York Times that the delivery man left so thoughtfully steps from my front door. Now I begin to wonder how much longer I will remain indoors and stay calm. The novelty has definitely worn off, The limitations of my cozy nest have become abundantly apparent, and the cats are out of food.
Just how patient am I? Will I venture out when the snow has dissipated from my snowy cul-de-sac in the woods, or will I be brave and carefully drive the few blocks to the market for a few essentials? (where IS this forecast rain to wash it all away anyway???).
They say with age comes wisdom. I will wait. On that note, I ponder...patience. Gardeners have a lot of it. How could we not?
To plant a tree
When you are young, planting a tree is like planting tomorrow. Tomorrow will come (you assume in your blissful ignorance), and you will enjoy the shade and the fruit yourself. When you are old, planting a tree is like planting the future...one you may never see, but you have the satisfaction of knowing that one day, someone else will enjoy the shade and the fruit. Both perspectives require patience...
To plant a seed
Sometimes we see the nearly immediate result of seed planting. When the soil is quite warm at the height of summer, the beans you plant today may very well pop up tomorrow (for a kid, this still requires an inordinate amount of patience), but most likely you'll have to wait for the required magic of moisture, warmth and light to stimulate growth. This usually happens under a bit of dirt, so each morning when you make your rounds and stare at the carefully sifted dirt, expecting little sprouts to emerge, you must exhibit...yes...patience. Carrots test my patience greatly. They only germinate (like most of us) under pretty refined circumstances, and require perfectly composted soil and shoulder room to grow in. Then you wait. Waiting gets hard. It could take weeks! The lovely ferny tops start to grow and look lush and abundant, but don't be fooled, those carrot roots need time and space to get big enough to eat. The first two or three you pull may disappoint you...inch long rootlets not even big enough for a nibble. This disappointment is the result of impatience. .. the yang of patience.
To make compost
The idea of recycling garden refuse into rich and powerful amendments to the soil that is free for the making is a great inducement to try it. It would be so much easier to call up the local compost supplier of your choice and have a few yards dumped near the garden to be spread by willing labor, or "blown" around the garden for a fee. Making and processing your own compost is truly a labor of intense commitment and faith. That the banana peels and onion skins and eggshells will really decompose tidily with the leaves and spent veggie carcasses and not stink or draw vermin and will become this black gold the organic growers talk about is another exercise in...patience. If you don't have a pricey tumbling mechanism to turn your compost pile, and chose the static method, as I must, then you wait...and wait...and wait. It may take a full year to harvest your very own black gold. Once you've turned, and sifted your treasure, and then applied it to the privileged plants (only the most precious get this treasure...if you have a large garden you never have enough), you wait again...to see the results of your beneficence. Are the cabbages and beets more robust? Will the persimmon tree make fruit this year?
If I have the patience for all this, then surely I have the patience to wait a little longer to drive to the market...
Just how patient am I? Will I venture out when the snow has dissipated from my snowy cul-de-sac in the woods, or will I be brave and carefully drive the few blocks to the market for a few essentials? (where IS this forecast rain to wash it all away anyway???).
They say with age comes wisdom. I will wait. On that note, I ponder...patience. Gardeners have a lot of it. How could we not?
To plant a tree
When you are young, planting a tree is like planting tomorrow. Tomorrow will come (you assume in your blissful ignorance), and you will enjoy the shade and the fruit yourself. When you are old, planting a tree is like planting the future...one you may never see, but you have the satisfaction of knowing that one day, someone else will enjoy the shade and the fruit. Both perspectives require patience...
To plant a seed
Sometimes we see the nearly immediate result of seed planting. When the soil is quite warm at the height of summer, the beans you plant today may very well pop up tomorrow (for a kid, this still requires an inordinate amount of patience), but most likely you'll have to wait for the required magic of moisture, warmth and light to stimulate growth. This usually happens under a bit of dirt, so each morning when you make your rounds and stare at the carefully sifted dirt, expecting little sprouts to emerge, you must exhibit...yes...patience. Carrots test my patience greatly. They only germinate (like most of us) under pretty refined circumstances, and require perfectly composted soil and shoulder room to grow in. Then you wait. Waiting gets hard. It could take weeks! The lovely ferny tops start to grow and look lush and abundant, but don't be fooled, those carrot roots need time and space to get big enough to eat. The first two or three you pull may disappoint you...inch long rootlets not even big enough for a nibble. This disappointment is the result of impatience. .. the yang of patience.
To make compost
The idea of recycling garden refuse into rich and powerful amendments to the soil that is free for the making is a great inducement to try it. It would be so much easier to call up the local compost supplier of your choice and have a few yards dumped near the garden to be spread by willing labor, or "blown" around the garden for a fee. Making and processing your own compost is truly a labor of intense commitment and faith. That the banana peels and onion skins and eggshells will really decompose tidily with the leaves and spent veggie carcasses and not stink or draw vermin and will become this black gold the organic growers talk about is another exercise in...patience. If you don't have a pricey tumbling mechanism to turn your compost pile, and chose the static method, as I must, then you wait...and wait...and wait. It may take a full year to harvest your very own black gold. Once you've turned, and sifted your treasure, and then applied it to the privileged plants (only the most precious get this treasure...if you have a large garden you never have enough), you wait again...to see the results of your beneficence. Are the cabbages and beets more robust? Will the persimmon tree make fruit this year?
If I have the patience for all this, then surely I have the patience to wait a little longer to drive to the market...
Saturday, January 4, 2014
New Year, New Perspectives
This time of year holds thrilling prospects...something must...to counterbalance the thought of another couple of months of cold dank weather here. (One day I will fulfill my dream of finding a charming pied-à-terre somewhere sunny from December until the first daffodils...)
The idea of renewal, although peaking, indeed, by the spring equinox March 20 this year, really begins for me as usual around January 1. My grandma Leah's dictum is that whatever you do on New Year's Day, you will repeat throughout the year. She was full of lovely superstitions, carried from her own childhood memories. I am OK with that. This one urges me to plan days full of things I love to do.
This year, as a prelude, I spent New Year's eve on a walk-a-bout in Golden Gate Park with my son. A walk through botanical gardens, museums and the Japanese Tea Garden was perfect. The winter scene affords a view otherwise obscured by leaves and blooms. I loved the regimented phalanx of pollarded trees at the axis of the de Young, the tea garden, amphitheater and science museum. I was amused by the discovery of one of my favorite artists, Andy Goldsworthy's "crack" art form, called "Faultline", at the entrance to the de Young (easy to overlook even on this light foot traffic day). The calming stillness of the bronze Buddha in the tea garden made me take sweet pause. All statements of form and structure, huge or subtle, that truely influence the environments they are a part of. I took away the realization that impact can be loud, or it can be subliminal.
The supports for the aging conifers over one of the pools in the Tea Garden gave me new appreciation for the meaning of "staking" a recumbent stem.
Some things I will try because I simply must fulfill my obsession to grow wonderfulness...after all, I do have avocado trees and baobab trees growing in my dining room right now. Podocarpus henkelii is a new-to-me beauty that I am told will not survive our winters, yet I know that when I can find one, I will buy it, and dream of the one I saw...
The idea of renewal, although peaking, indeed, by the spring equinox March 20 this year, really begins for me as usual around January 1. My grandma Leah's dictum is that whatever you do on New Year's Day, you will repeat throughout the year. She was full of lovely superstitions, carried from her own childhood memories. I am OK with that. This one urges me to plan days full of things I love to do.
This year, as a prelude, I spent New Year's eve on a walk-a-bout in Golden Gate Park with my son. A walk through botanical gardens, museums and the Japanese Tea Garden was perfect. The winter scene affords a view otherwise obscured by leaves and blooms. I loved the regimented phalanx of pollarded trees at the axis of the de Young, the tea garden, amphitheater and science museum. I was amused by the discovery of one of my favorite artists, Andy Goldsworthy's "crack" art form, called "Faultline", at the entrance to the de Young (easy to overlook even on this light foot traffic day). The calming stillness of the bronze Buddha in the tea garden made me take sweet pause. All statements of form and structure, huge or subtle, that truely influence the environments they are a part of. I took away the realization that impact can be loud, or it can be subliminal.
The supports for the aging conifers over one of the pools in the Tea Garden gave me new appreciation for the meaning of "staking" a recumbent stem.
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| tree brace au naturel |
A proper Zen garden, and the stunning placement of stones and raked gravel urges me to study closely what I seek to achieve in my own front courtyard.
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| Zen Garden, within the Japanese Tea Garden, Golden Gate Park |
Later, a stroll though the Succulent, New Zealand and South African sections of the botanical garden, reminded me once again that the range of plants and their performance at different latitudes is a huge consideration, despite one's "wants" and obsessions. I can have all the agaves and proteaceae I desire, but no matter how well coddled and protected, they will never achieve the glory they can without the approximation of their natural environment. The winter flowering here (the summer for them in their homes) gives me only a glimpse of what these specimens look like in situ.
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| Aloe in bloom, December 31, 2013 |
Some things I will try because I simply must fulfill my obsession to grow wonderfulness...after all, I do have avocado trees and baobab trees growing in my dining room right now. Podocarpus henkelii is a new-to-me beauty that I am told will not survive our winters, yet I know that when I can find one, I will buy it, and dream of the one I saw...
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