What I Want
I'm thinking about doing something different with my yard this year. I'm
thinking about doing exactly what I want.
This is new for me. Gardening has always been fraught with rules about "too
late," "too early," "too hot," "too cold," "too much acid," "not enough
fertilizer." It all centers around the great mystery of horticulture,
something that other people know, even some people I think are kind of dumb.
It's like there's actually going to be an atomic explosion if something
costing 98 cents dies in my yard. People will stand and point, "Look, half
their delphiniums died. What num-nuts." (I would reconsider word choice
here because you’re trying to spell numb-nuts, referring to the male
genitalia.)
Then two years ago there was a big moment in my life, a moment in mid-July,
with the temperature hovering around 95, that I decided to get rid of this
big orange spikey thing by the front porch. Not wanting to hear its tiny
voice calling from the trashcan, "Liz, Liz, please don't kill me!" I moved
it to this awful place by the fence where I figured it would die a horrible
death of heat exposure. The ultimate passive-aggressive move on a plant.
But that little bugger fooled me and stayed alive. Covered with even more
orange spikey things, it taunts me now with its healthiness.
But, it also says to me, "Go ahead, be yourself. Plant late, defy the
rules, live it up. BE YOURSELF!"
Possibly, it occurs to me, it would be okay to be an imperfect gardener.
Maybe I could grab a few things from the nursery that I liked and just stick
them in the ground and see what happens.
Maybe, maybe I could dig up some past mistakes and toss them, rearrange
things, make a few really bad decisions, just like my real life! Maybe
then, things could be figured out after these experiments, so to speak; I
could, you know, repent and try again! Maybe there are not that many
people who care if I plant a "sun-loving plant" in "partial shade!"
Man oh man, what if this is true. What if no one cares if I mess up? Are
there other lessons to be learned from my shaky relationship with the plant
world?
Last year, a yard service had the wonderful opportunity to spend fourteen
hours at our house hauling away twenty years of procrastination. For a
final flourish, they planted a few flowers by the front door. These flowers
were clearly not mine: my theory is that if you plant the whole flat of
petunias, maybe you won't have to weed. These were a few flowers, not all
the same kind, planted separately. They looked so amazing. Maybe you don't
have to kill yourself to have things be okay.
In nature, things seem to go to waste: seeds don't sprout, fruit gets
frozen, trees die from drought. Sure, there's the whole return to the earth
thing, I get that. But if you were a strict perfectionist, nature is not
the place to look.
In the mountains, where I'm writing this, there are little vignettes of
trees, grasses, and a few flowers, almost like different arrangements at a
giant florist's who's elected to sell trees for some reason. These
arrangements are ragged, calming, and perfect in their imperfection.
Sometimes life seems so complicated; maybe a good weeding, possibly even
some Round-Up would help in places.
In my heart of hearts, I see my refrigerator as a reflection of my life.
When it's all messed up, my life is usually pretty disorganized. Maybe my
garden can be that too, the place where I learn to dare, learn to have
confidence in my ability to try whatever I'd like.
thinking about doing exactly what I want.
This is new for me. Gardening has always been fraught with rules about "too
late," "too early," "too hot," "too cold," "too much acid," "not enough
fertilizer." It all centers around the great mystery of horticulture,
something that other people know, even some people I think are kind of dumb.
It's like there's actually going to be an atomic explosion if something
costing 98 cents dies in my yard. People will stand and point, "Look, half
their delphiniums died. What num-nuts." (I would reconsider word choice
here because you’re trying to spell numb-nuts, referring to the male
genitalia.)
Then two years ago there was a big moment in my life, a moment in mid-July,
with the temperature hovering around 95, that I decided to get rid of this
big orange spikey thing by the front porch. Not wanting to hear its tiny
voice calling from the trashcan, "Liz, Liz, please don't kill me!" I moved
it to this awful place by the fence where I figured it would die a horrible
death of heat exposure. The ultimate passive-aggressive move on a plant.
But that little bugger fooled me and stayed alive. Covered with even more
orange spikey things, it taunts me now with its healthiness.
But, it also says to me, "Go ahead, be yourself. Plant late, defy the
rules, live it up. BE YOURSELF!"
Possibly, it occurs to me, it would be okay to be an imperfect gardener.
Maybe I could grab a few things from the nursery that I liked and just stick
them in the ground and see what happens.
Maybe, maybe I could dig up some past mistakes and toss them, rearrange
things, make a few really bad decisions, just like my real life! Maybe
then, things could be figured out after these experiments, so to speak; I
could, you know, repent and try again! Maybe there are not that many
people who care if I plant a "sun-loving plant" in "partial shade!"
Man oh man, what if this is true. What if no one cares if I mess up? Are
there other lessons to be learned from my shaky relationship with the plant
world?
Last year, a yard service had the wonderful opportunity to spend fourteen
hours at our house hauling away twenty years of procrastination. For a
final flourish, they planted a few flowers by the front door. These flowers
were clearly not mine: my theory is that if you plant the whole flat of
petunias, maybe you won't have to weed. These were a few flowers, not all
the same kind, planted separately. They looked so amazing. Maybe you don't
have to kill yourself to have things be okay.
In nature, things seem to go to waste: seeds don't sprout, fruit gets
frozen, trees die from drought. Sure, there's the whole return to the earth
thing, I get that. But if you were a strict perfectionist, nature is not
the place to look.
In the mountains, where I'm writing this, there are little vignettes of
trees, grasses, and a few flowers, almost like different arrangements at a
giant florist's who's elected to sell trees for some reason. These
arrangements are ragged, calming, and perfect in their imperfection.
Sometimes life seems so complicated; maybe a good weeding, possibly even
some Round-Up would help in places.
In my heart of hearts, I see my refrigerator as a reflection of my life.
When it's all messed up, my life is usually pretty disorganized. Maybe my
garden can be that too, the place where I learn to dare, learn to have
confidence in my ability to try whatever I'd like.
Comments