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Category: Garden

Trees of Knowledge

The other night as I was just dipping into a new novel I was struck by a couple of sentences and had to pause. I was all of two pages in.

"To him a tree is a thing, which can be replaced by another thing like it. Is it lunacy in me to feel that this is not so?"

from Peculiar Ground by Lucy Hughes-Hallett

As you know I was cutting down trees, and replacing at least one tree with a different tree. Perhaps this is why this sentence resonates with me so. But perhaps not.

The same weekend that the trees were coming down I was finishing up Peter Wohlleben's book The Hidden Life of Trees. It struck me that here I was reading about communication between trees, reading about the social structure of forests and the interrelationships between individual trees, and I was committing tree-murder. Of course Wohlleben himself states that nursery bred trees don't have the same social instincts that trees raised in their native forest, with their mother tree and all their relatives do. And I can believe that, just as I have come to understand that people who are reared in isolation, or without love and safety and emotional support do not have the same social instincts as people who have a more fortuitous upbringing.

I remember coming home from New York two years ago, sitting in the back of a car in the rain, headed toward Newark airport. The darkness was slowly lifting, its leaden, rain-soaked colors only slightly brightened, and I remember looking at the trees. I had no reason to think about trees. But those trees, surrounded by concrete, industry, traffic, and noxious fumes seemed particularly solitary, lonely even, isolated and yet determined to survive.

Perhaps I have too vigorous of an imagination, but I do not think this is the case. I was brought-up to believe that knowledge brings with it responsibility, responsibility for that which is known or seen. The two together, knowledge and its attendant responsibility help guide us, if we are attentive, to understanding.

I have always talked to trees and plants and animals as well. I think all children do, but we are often trained to outgrow it. If we are lucky, we live to outgrow our training. Even so, people who talk to trees are looked at with suspicion. We praise fantasy, the novels of CS Lewis, Tolkein, Stephen King, and many others, where, yes, trees are know to speak, or to have once spoken before growing silent, but it is more comfortable to relegate this idea to another place, the realm of fantasy.. I think we know that all living things are just that, alive. They feel, they suffer, they seek and need community, they love. Perhaps it is we humans, with our big brains, and the way we compartmentalize everything, who have forgotten the meaning of love and community. Even though we live in communities, it seems like we are often like those pot-grown trees, apparently together but actually apart. Our roots don't know how to intertwine, how to share, how to nurture and support each other.

And yes, I did murder trees; or I hired someone else to do it. Of course not all can survive, and I understand this. I can justify my actions as well. The river birch was directly in the line of future construction, the maple was on the edge, and even if it had survived, it would have experienced serious damage, and yes pain. A swift death by chain saw may be kinder than a slow an agonizing death. Mostly, thought that tree was simply too close to the house. There is a lesson in that, and I worry about putting the wrong plant in a place. Yes I am human, I am arrogant, I compartmentalize, I make mistakes, but I want to avoid the obvious ones, putting in a plant that solves a need now, knowing it will eventually grow too big. We human's say things like "but that's 50 years from now", as if the life of a tree doesn't matter, as if the tree is just a thing that can be replaced with another thing. But 50 years is but a drop in the bucket for many trees. Would we say the same thing about fellow humans? "Oh go ahead, let her grow and do what she wants, she entertains us now, in 20 years we can execute her and start over". I doubt it. And yes, I know that statement is a bit extreme.

Another tree came out. A redbud, that was loosing large parts of itself in every wind. A dogwood filled its place, and I cruelly pulled out other plants to replace some that were obviously struggling, but they were still alive. They were replaced with plants that I hope will do better in the spot. Gardening, it seems is also a responsibility, just as life is a responsibility. We boldly go, making mistakes daily. Tit for tat. "You hurt my people; I'll hurt yours". But that is not what it is all about. When we work in that dual, me and mine vs you and yours mode, we actually harm ourselves as much as the entire fabric of our society, our lives. We create rifts from which we may never recover. Compassion doesn't mean that no one ever suffers, it means that our roots, our very beings are interconnected, and we suffer together, that we mourn, that we support each other, but that we also live, and we also accept that our very lives depend on the health of the whole community.

And yet, we are arrogant. We make mistakes. I am arrogant. I make mistakes. Can we become master gardeners? Can we become masters of life? of compassion? Or will we cling stubbornly, each wrapping our roots around our particular rock, determined to have our way even as we stand isolated and alone against the elements?

March 13, 2018
Not So Quiet Saturday

I was not planning on writing a blog post this morning. At 8:30 I was still in my pajamas, although my morning housekeeping chores had been completed and I was ready to settle down with my journal and a pot of coffee. I thought, perhaps erroneously, that I had all the time in the world, despite a sore back, despite the fact that I still have to run to the store for a critical ingredient for a dish I promised to take to a party tonight.

Instead, just as I sat, my sore back finally comfortable, hoping for a bit of a respite, I heard loud trucks. "I thought that can't be happening here". But it was. The trees I thought were coming down on Monday came down this morning. As I sat here, watching men tossing ropes over the tree not 10 feet outside this window, I wondered if I should move. But before I even gathered my notebook and my coffee the tree was down,

I watched them pull the River Birch down, and now several trees lie across my driveway. No going to the store for a while, but they are so efficient I will probably get there. Of course if I had known this was going to happen at 8:30 on a Saturday, I would have warned my neighbors, whereas I would not have worried about it on a weekday. Too late now. We will all just have to settle in to the sound of chippers and saws. And Tikka barking hysterically, She doesn't know what to make of all of it.

In other small bits of news, the Amaryllis is in full bloom. Moises broke the main flower stalk, unintentionally I am sure, he had never seen an amaryllis before, but I managed to prop it up against the window sill, and all the flowers have opened.

Well, at least I won't have the tree people here on Monday at the same time as the people fixing the leak in my basement. Which reminds me I still have more heavy cleanup to do. But first a short break.

Happy Saturday. I hope yours is quieter than mine.

March 3, 2018
Sunday in the Late February Garden

It feels like Spring in Knoxville, an early spring indeed. The daffodils are blooming as are a few flowering trees including a couple of early dogwoods, although it still feels too early. I don't know how accurate this feeling is, or if it is just a remnant from my 30 years in NY, but there is still a possibility of killing frost, and so I remain hopeful but cautiously so. I am starting to see leaf buds on the maple outside my office window the one that is too large, not very pretty, and blocks all the light; I am reminded that it is better to deal with this tree now, before those leaves unfurl and make the tree even more ungainly.

In fact it is really hard to exercise restraint and not muck about in the garden too much, to not get carried away with dreams and plans. I've owned this house for a year now, although I haven't lived her for a year yet, so my one-year moratorium is not quite over. But I also know there will be construction coming, and there is no point in planting things that will just get trampled, so waiting is the better choice. But waiting is hard.

There is, however, one small section of the yard I can work with now, and a couple of small projects here and there. Even so I need to be careful not to get carried away. New plantings will need water, and I must be mindful of my ability to water areas that are currently outside of the reach of my 50-foot hose, not that a 100-foot hose is hard to come by. But I must also consider that the sprinkler system will not go in until after the other work is done, remembering to plan accordingly, and not plant things that will only be uprooted by future work, remembering that my own life, as well as the yard will be uprooted by construction, remembering to be patient with myself.

Still, I can also remember that it costs nothing to dream. The trick is in starting slowly while dreaming big. But that is the best way anyway.

Today I am out working in the garden. It rained overnight, but the rain has stopped, hopefully, for the day, and I can putter about, am happy to putter about, cleaning up the beds, carrying out a little late winter pruning, even though I may have missed that late-winter part. We don't yet know who is going to win the "is it Spring yet?" competition, the plants or Mother Nature.

And when the rains return, or I am forced inside due to other obligations, the winter cyclamen is still going strong, and my Amaryllis is finally blooming, a reminder just to enjoy things as they come, in their own time, placing the emphasis on acceptance rather than expectation,

February 25, 2018
The Promise of Spring: A Short Walk in the Garden

Despite the ongoing cycle of cold and more cold, the sudden arrival of a few warm days, and another burst of cold, the garden is slowly working its way toward spring. The warm days are warmer, the days are longer, the sun is stronger, and the garden responds.

The first snowdrops peeked their heads out this week.

And the hellebores are amassing their blooms, mostly hidden under the protection of winter browned leaves, but increasingly visible. It is early yet to clean the garden too thoroughly, a blanket of fading leaves offers a layer of protection, and there are still a few hard frosts in the immediate forecast.

But there is also new growth, and flowers; flowers which brighten my spirits.

The camellias are also beginning to open. Most of them are the color of the blossom shown above, but perhaps the one I adore the most was this one below, in a photo taken a week ago, the same blossom that partially emerged earlier in January then waited patiently in that half emergent state for weeks. It is faded now, but the memory of its progress, of the colors perhaps tinged by cold and frost, remans still, nature's reminder that life and beauty will endure.

Winter is not quite over, even in Tennessee, nor in Dallas, where it was warmer but still wintery. When I lived in the Hudson Valley, February was the most depressing month, often bitterly cold, plagued with alternating freezes and thaws, and the depressing knowledge that flowers were still months away. Spring is a bit closer at hand here, but this has been most consistently "wintery" winter since I moved to Tennessee. We too can use a bit of February color. And on that note, I'll leave you with this photo of a cyclamen in my kitchen window. I purchased it last night, at a fund-raiser for the local Ronald McDonald House. In these late winter days, when the world is still mostly dreary gray and brown out my kitchen window, these bright pink blossoms will bring a spark of joy and an often needed reminder that light and color will come.

February 3, 2018
Word-Less Wednesday

The other daylily bloomed. The photo was taken in the reflective glow of mid-day sun. This particular plant is also recovering from its questionable beginnings, so I am sure it will survive.

The remaining photos are from my trip to Asheville last week. I loved Asheville and will go back. Most of these photos are snippets and small details from my morning walks. As usual, I am not very good at photos that give a sense of the entire place, but of the little bits that draw my eyes, such as these grates in a building Tikka and I walked around every morning and evening. These small details made me smile every time I saw them.

I suppose this is not surprising. When I was 7 my parents took us to the Alhambra. All I remembered of that palace was the detail of one particular tile floor. When I returned as an adult, I saw and admired much more, but I did not feel that I had truly returned to the Alhambra until I found the floor that had haunted my memory for decades.

Art was everywhere, not just in galleries.

Here, I love not only the mural, but the sculpture of cats on the wall. Art of the everyday.

Tikka and I walked through here every morning, and often again in the evening. During the day the stands are populated with artists selling prints, etchings, jewelry, and tie-dyed baby clothes. Both in the early morning silence and during the daily hustle and bustle, it reminded me of many walks in Madrid, of similar venues, and similar gatherings of dawdlers, buyers, and sellers. It felt like home to me in an odd way.

I have an iron just like this, but of course on a more useable scale.

But it wasn't all art and frivolity. I appreciated the availability of trash and recycling receptacles. Attractively designed as well.

The craft fair was fun. Walking around the downtown area, exploring galleries and shops, eating very well, and watching people was also fun. The glass scissors above are by Rick Beck. They are very large, although I don't really give you any references except that they rest upon a table. From my favorite gallery, Blue Sprial 1, where I walked around in a happy daze. Apparently my taste leans more toward studio craft as art, and perhaps the avant-garde.

Or I just like giant scissors and irons.

July 26, 2017
Five Things Friday

1. In June I went to the Daylilly Festival at Oakes Daylilies with friends. It poured almost the entire time we were there or I might have shared the adventure with you. Even though I have basically said that I am not planting, at least not planting perennials I did come home with a couple of medium to short daylilies, which I new would happily fit in a couple of bare areas in the front, areas the previous owner had filled with annuals.   Two of those daylilies have put out buds, one of them bloomed Wednesday.

Oddly the two daylilies that seem determined to bloom are the two that did not look like they were adapting well. We have had a lot of rain, at least through the first week of July, and these areas were perhaps a little more waterlogged than daylilies prefer.    Then again, perhaps it is not odd, a plant, I suppose, like any living thing, wants to reproduce. I wonder if the plant has enough gumption left for me to transplant it, or given that we are currently in a dry period, if it is best to leave it where it is to recover, waiting to transplant in the early fall, before the rains probably recommence.

2. Tikka and I are out on adventure. The contractors have been busy working at my house since yesterday morning. Due to the nature of the work being done, we were asked to vacate for a couple of days, so we have wandered over to Asheville. North Carolina. Tikka is a pretty good travel companion, happy to rest quietly in a hotel room, as long as we stick more or less to our normal routine of meals and walks, which is not difficult to do, and even though summer camp is fun, I think she'd rather go than be left behind.

3. Yesterday evening, the plan had been that I would walk Tikka and then go back out for dinner, but downtown Asheville seems to be a pretty dog-friendly place. Tikka is a very social girl, mostly well-behaved, but social nonetheless, and she loved the opportunity to meet her four-legged compatriots, as well as to stop and say hello to anyone who said "hello cutie" and asked if they could pet her. We were out for a while and somehow ended up stopping at a place with a lovely shaded patio and some nearby musicians. I stayed for dinner without taking Tikka home first. She got her water bowl and settled happily under the table, while our menus were brought out. Yes, our menus, as there was a doggie menu as well. Alas Tikka had already dined, although she might well have preferred a bison burger with quinoa.

4. We had arrived in the early afternoon, after spending an extra hour and a half on the freeway due to an accident in the middle of a construction site, and I was tired and hungry. I found a tapas bar, where I had a lovely glass of chilled Albariño, and a couple of small plates, one of which was the lovely, and delicious, plate of sardines shown above.

5. Sated, and probably foolish, I meandered back to the hotel.   I passed a store filled with looms and yarn and fibers for knitting and felting, basket making supplies, dyestuffs, and all kinds of fabulous things. I don't have my own studio set up yet, or my loom, but I am eager to learn and play. I wandered around, contented to let myself remain dazed. I'm not ready for more supplies, I just needed to observe the riches. I kind of like this jumbled photo of multiple looms, looking outward onto the street because it captures my sense of dazed abundance, exactly what I wanted to remember from that first visit.

My midday walk was foolish because I neglected to apply sunscreen when Ileft the hotel to go to lunch, and although I probably only spent about 15 minutes or so in the sun, and another 20-30 following my meal, (already after 3) I did get a sunburn. I had applied sunscreen before leaving Knoxville, since I have a history of melanoma, but that had been hours before, and the altituide is higher as well, although I do not know if it is enough to make a difference. It may be. I recognize that I have been growing more lax over the years with sunscreen, and I do struggle with the issues of burning, vs UVA (more likely implicated in melanoma), vs vitamin D absorption. Although I haven't burnt in day to day activities, I've noticed that even though I apply a broad spectrum sunscreen daily, and wear a sun protective shirt if I work I the yard during the hours when the sun is high, I have gotten a little more color than usual on my arms and chest just from day to day short-term exposure. I've bee lax, and this is a reminder that I need to improve.

July 21, 2017
A Few Rain-Kissed Garden Photos

On the fourth of July, 1776, the delegates of the thirteen colonies that became the United States, adopted the Declaration of Independence. This date has been a day of celebration ever since. It is a day of joyousness and exuberance, a day we honor our birth as a nation, but also a day we honor those who stood for what they believed to be right.

On this particular Independence Day, I have few words. Instead I shall share a few photos from my new garden. It is mostly a quiet garden, a garden which has not yet revealed all its secrets, but a garden I look forward to enjoying and sharing.

There are few sun-loving flowers in my garden at the moment, mostly because I did not replace the early spring annuals before moving in. But I enjoy the few bright spots.

But also love the softness of colors in the shade garden.

And the joys of greenery in all its forms.

Even a few surprises. Lovely as they are, I've spent more times ripping out invasive vines that choke out other living things. But today I can simply enjoy an occasional flower.

Have a lovely day.

July 4, 2017
In the Garden

I thought I would share a few photos from my garden:

I feel incredibly fortunate to have found a house I love surrounded by a garden filled with the kinds of plants I love. Most of this garden has nothing to do with my efforts.

The West side of the house in the early morning, when the hydrangeas still shine and the daylilies have not yet awoken. In the afternoon the daylilies dominate and the hydrangeas slip into the background.

I have started working in the garden, mostly in the early morning and evening, when the heat does not offend my sensibilities, or trigger my tendencies to get headaches. Most of my efforts fall into the category of scut work: weeding, pruning, deadheading. It can be enjoyable in its own slow meditative way, but perhaps only in the small doses I allow myself. The garden will be here, and I will catch up.

The ferns I had originally planted next to the front door were moved; they needed more sun. I was aware of this when I planted them but hoped for the best anyway. They are happier now.

When I planted the small towers next to the ferns I was initially disappointed. I figured I would be replacing the plants within days, but they have settled in nicely. Perhaps it is all too much greenery, and flowers would have been better, but it is late June already, and it is possible that there is some disconnect between what is currently available in nurseries and what I am willing to plant. The hedges need pruning as well, which requires another trip to the store for the requisite tool. I've lived all this time and never needed to trim a hedge.

There is always something new to be discovered, one might as well take time to enjoy the process.

June 17, 2017
Five Things Friday

1. It seems my mind has been too fragmented to write regularly, at least here, and I accept that it may be so for some time. It is not actually a matter of discipline because I do sit and write each day; or perhaps it is a matter of forcing myself into disciplined focus. And yet, I am content to let things slip by, unremarked, without analysis. I am sure this will change in time but for now this transitional time is both a time of discovery and a time of letting life slide past, a floating perhaps, and perhaps something will come of it in time.

2. More small tulips are blooming. I love their petit blossoms, and the slowly evolving scattering of blossoms is like an extended goodbye. I don't really plan on taking any plants with me from this house to the next one. I did, with few small exceptions, take care not to plant anything too unusual, or which I would feel attached. Besides, I do feel strongly that this garden is itself meant to be here, it is not mine to take. This was simply my contribution to this space. Whether anything will last, or be changed is beyond me, but I am content.

3. I have just finished reading Pond by Claire-Louise Bennett. There were passages that were quite beautiful, and at least one small segment I found moving, but I haven't really figured out whether the book simply did not resonate with me, or perhaps it was more that I did not resonate with it. Perhaps it is simply that the fragments of my life at the moment and the fragments which made up the book were in opposition, with the book feeling far too insular. It is certainly odd that I would think that, as I am a master of insular over-thinking. But there it is. It is also possible that my own struggle with the book has had an effect on my own lack of writing, my discomfiture with the book amplifying my dissatisfaction with my own writing and therefore creating the aforementioned inability to blog. Or perhaps I am just too scattered to pay attention to such detailed, and admittedly at times profound, focus on the mundanities of the every day. As I stated, there were passages of great beauty, and Bennett does have the ability to capture and transform stream-of-thought musings into something more poetic than most of us probably manage on a daily basis.

4. Have you watched the Netflix series Chef's Table? I just recently discovered it, and have watched season one and half of season two over the last month or so. It is not something I want to watch quickly. I want to watch and savor and occasionally watch certain episodes again. Yes it is about fancy food in fancy restaurants, and although I have eaten in some of these restaurants I may never do so again, and I am content. I yearn for something simpler now, but at the same time, I find the stories moving, especially the way the chefs speak about the elements of their cuisine, the food itself, and its connection to both the earth that nourishes, and the community of people who are dining. They practice both an elevated and an elemental simplicity. Never think that simplicity is easy. Listening to these chef's speak I am reminded of how we are each connected to this earth, and how each item and each moment is connected and precious. I am reminded of the joy of cooking and why I love to cook, even in my simple and rather crude way. I am reminded of the pure gift of sharing food with other people, of the bounty of this earth. I am also reminded also of how disconnected most of us, at least those of us in Western Industrial Societies, are from the actual world we live in, the food we eat, and the cycle of life that nourishes us. The series makes me want to cook, even a simple burger, but to pay attention, and it makes me want to work in the garden, to take time to smell the dirt and notice the new leaves, and think about my place in this world. A stretch perhaps but what does art do but cause us to stretch?

5.. It is Big Ears time once again in Knoxville. I will not be attending as much this year as I have in the past couple of years, not because there is less to hear, but simply because there are too many things to do elsewhere. But I will still go, and already my heart and brain are overflowing with music. For me, the magic started last night with the Knoxville Jazz Orchestra playing with Carla Bley. From the moment I walked in, and I did miss the beginning, the music carried me away. I was reminded of the way music focus and transforms us, and ties into the essential spirit and eternal motion of life. The music is all around us every day, in the sound of the wind, even of the grass growing, but we are usually too distracted to notice. In music however, we reconnect to something elemental, an eternal prayer of sorts, that has the power to take us beyond ourselves, connect us to the universe, and even bring us back home, safely into where we most need to be.

March 24, 2017
Similar Flowers, Two Gardens

My gardens are in bloom, so far with fairly similar blossoms. The Lenten Roses at the new house are more established and lush.

But the later-blooming, and less common varieties of hellebore that I planted at the old house are also blooming this year, for the first time, and I traipsed out in the rain to capture a picture of one for you, although alas it is somewhat blurry.

I am happy that the new house has an established garden, and that it seems to be heavily planted with plants I love.

At the moment that means it is surrounded with daffodils and hellebores and camellias. The camellias at the new house are blooming now; the camellias at the old house are done for the season.

There are daffodils at both houses, but I only managed photos at the one (current) house. different varieties at each, which only adds to the enjoyment.

February 23, 2017