Over
time, the ideas in Toby
Hemenway's book Gaia's Garden, 
transformed my thinking, inviting experimentation
with fewer paths, more curves & the
integration of pollinator-
friendly plants.

My family
thinks it's crazy to
redesign the garden every
few years as each one seems pretty
cool, like this rounded mounded central axis
filled with a mix of annual vegetables and perennials.
But for me, these changes reveal how this garden was becoming
more than just a space to grow vegetables. It was
a safe place for me to connect with and
explore the power of the
earth herself, this
thing called
Gaia.

But
that's just
what I did, creating
a circular space aligned with
the quadrants of a compass and based 
on historic herb garden designs.
I didn't know what this
new space would
be like...

Welcome.
When I walk into
our 'new' front yard, it's
like magic. The granite pavers
guide me past the front
door and around
​to the back,

where ​pungent
SummerSweet and cheerful
purple Coneflower (echinacea) beckon.
"Come," they say. "You are
​safe here."

And I am.
Bees frolick and
I feel a warm embrace
not just from the plants, but
from all the people who guided
me to this time and this place. It seems
hard to believe that in the midst
of a global crisis, I have
​found such joy in
​the garden.

Just
three months
ago, Calvin and I sat
in our front 'yard.' Still early
in the COVID crisis, we were eager
to be outside. For me, though, this space
between our house & the road
was not a calming
​place.

In fact,
it was unsettling.
Perhaps it was the abrupt
contrast between the lawn & the
trees or maybe it was the way the lawn
just headed off into our neighbor's
property, carrying my
energy with it --
away.

The more
I walked among this
increasing variety of plants,
the more grounded I felt in every ​way,
not just because a formally neglected place was
getting attention, but because it was
coming to life - the winged
creatures were
showing
​up.

But
even with
this beauty, there
was something missing.
The more time I spent in this
place, the more I realized that it had
​something to do with the
flow of energy.

So,
it was with
great enthusiasm that
during the last week in July, I
carried one hundred pavers from a pallet
at Gardener's Supply in Lebanon, NH
into and out of the car, slowly
laying them into the soil,
and in the process,
transforming
this place.

Our
initial design
did not include edging
material nor did it include this
connection between the front and back
yards. But this mix of stone and
diverse plantings created
an increasingly
​dynamic
space.

At one time or another, Kelsey & Karen worked at Henderson's Garden Center in White River Junction, VT. The Garden Center is run by Sylvia Provost, who always has amazing ideas and plants for any project.

Permaculture Solutions, LLC Karen Ganey shares her creative gifts through consultations, design and installation. 

Gardener's Supply, Lebanon, NH A friendly place to find native trees, shrubs, perennials and vegetable starts.

E.C.Brown's Nursery, Thetford, VT A welcoming place to find native trees, shrubs and perennials. 

Ongoing inspiration from friends at the Hanover Garden Club and colleagues on the Sustaining Landscapes Committee in Hanover. 

Strange
how quickly
things can change.
One day there's this sign
silhouetted against dark clouds
and a few days later,
the sign is
​gone.

Dartmouth
College recently
announced that it was
permanently closing its golf
course. It's a common destination
for walking and since COVID
it's been a go-to spot
for many.

The
rapid action
took me by surprise,
though. The benches & the
platforms on which they rested
were gone just a few days after the
announcement. It seemed
so sudden & sad.

I'm not
a golfer and I
hate the toxins that are
used to kill weeds, but endings
are hard, especially for those whose
livelihoods depend on
​the course.

Grass
grows on the
paths & in the sand
traps, slowly reclaiming
the land.

Like
soldiers,
the Milkweed
march into the lawn
and stake their claim. Soon
wildflowers will do
the same.

Like
so many
transitions, the
losses for some are
benefits for others. Trade-
offs abound right
now and I am
​curious.

First,
I am curious
about how quickly
the college was able to
dismantle the structures on the
course. Is that kind of rapid adaptation
something we are all capable of
​if given clear direction
and leadership?

Second,
I am curious
about the process
of land reclaiming itself.
How long will it take and what
will it feel like? It is strange to know
that this grass will never be so
short again & that the
green layers will
disappear.

What
will it be like
when the only mowed
path follows this dotted white
line & is surrounded by tall
grass, wildflowers
​and crickets?

Bliss.
Mixed textures.
Heavenly shades of green.
What's not to
​love?

But those
large green leaves
are mini-oaks, taking over
a place not prepared
for ​trees.

With
the right 
tools & care,
it's not so hard
to make a
​change.

There
is power in
transplanting and
re-imagining a plant or
a space or even an assumption
about how things are meant to be. I 
feel that way all the time in the
garden. There's the vision
& then there's
​reality.

And
sometimes
that reality is like this
honeysuckle, planted to fill
& beautify the corner of the garden
that happens to be adjacent to the compost
and happens to, over time, look
amazing on both sides
of the fence.

As I free
the blueberries
& liberate bounded roots,
I am grateful for unexpected flourishings.
Amid the seeming chaos & disruption of transplants
& fixings, there are places where things
work and where beauty
​exists.

This
is perhaps
the 100th shrub
I have planted in our yard
during the past decade, and this
tight tangle of roots gets me every time.
Not all plants are so completely
ensnared, but most ​seem
to be at least this
rootbound.

Sometimes
aggressive action is
necessary because it is
absolutely essential to free the
roots from themselves. If they remain
entangled, the shrub will never
be able to settle into
its new home.

Earlier
today, when
I held this particular
plant and gently worked to
free ​the roots, I thought of how
hard it has been to liberate myself from
the constraints I created as a result
of ​expectations of all kinds,
some from within &
some from
​family.

A plant
will thrive in 
its new home when
its roots are free & it has the
water & nutrients it needs. As I write,
I am increasingly curious about what roots I
may choose to cut so that I can participate fully in
conversations about climate, race & our
nation's structural inequalities
that limit our collective
capacity to
thrive.

It's easy
to ignore the 
blueberry bushes.
I can't see them from the
house or from the gardens close
to the house. A few years ago they were
productive, but they've never
been ​abundant, so I
end up kind of
​ignoring
them.

Until
yesterday,
when they called
for attention. As I am
apt to do, I dove in, slashing
the grasses with my Japanese Hori
Hori gardening knife, madly
giving those poor
plants some
​air. 

On the
first bush, I just
cut back the grass; On the
next one, though, I focused on one
section, pulling up grass by the roots. It was
harder work, especially since we're having a drought
and the soil is compacted and dry. But as I 
said, I was in one of those "I have
take care of this NOW"
kind of moods.

When
I stopped for
some water, though,
my 'yay me look what I've
been doing' moment became 'oh
no, there's so much more.' How often do
I focus on one part of a thing and
feel great about it, until I
​notice how much
more there is
to do?

There ​is
no quick fix
for these struggling
shrubs. They need so much
more than air and space. But after
the superficial grass removal & my one
'deep dive' with that one bush,
my hands ached and I
needed to
​rest.

 But I felt
sad & really bad
that I had not actually
provided them the nutrients
& care they needed to thrive and I am
sure they were annoyed when I whispered
"please be patient. The entire garden is calling. I'll
be back." How could they not be annoyed? They know
that in recent years I have only paid attention to them when
blueberries are in season (when there's something in
it for me); They also know that I have been
disappointed ​with their production
even though I have obviously
been ignoring their
​needs.

 As I
created
these images
& whispered those
promises, I could feel their
skepticism & anger. "Yes," they're
probably thinking, "you do have a lot to
manage. But you planted us in the first place.
It really is your job to figure out how to not just
admire us, but to also do what it takes
so that we & all these other plants
can thrive in this garden
of your design &
​making.

There's
work to do 
at home and all
around, so we've been
working - digging & mulching,
pruning & planting. It
​feels good to
​work hard.

And
even though
these phlox are out
of control and need attention,
I'm OK with their extravagant abundance
because five years ago, there was
nothing in that particular place
but a neglected corner
of the terrace.

Those
lupin blew over
from a neighbor's field,
but the comfrey by its side and
those chives behind were intentionally
planted to increase soil fertility on what was once
a rocky dry hillside. These woodland phlox, so different
from those flowers surrounding the bird,
thrive in a space that was once
a pile of sticks.

These
phlox and
this myrtle (or
Vinca Minor) have
finally merged on the
hillside by our driveway.
5 years in the making,
this space is, at
last, feeling
whole.

I am
grateful
to my garden
for reminding me
that neglected places
can be transformed. There
just needs to be a plan, focused
attention, and patience to
let what will emerge,
​emerge.

Purples
are beginning
to share the stage with
other colors, like these white
flowers on a lone Hawthorn tree that
is abuzz. It was for these pollinators that we
created this garden in the first place, so hearing them
in action gives me hope and purpose as I
go outside to get back
​to work.

​There's
The Tempest, a
drama by Shakespeare,
and there's the perennial plant, Good
King Henry. Both white men. Both British. One
an old text with faux leather cover & the other gone to
seed. Together, they make a perfect mix
of nitrogen and carbon in 
​my compost
pile, 

Because
it had rained a lot,
I added some old newspapers
to the mix and was surprised that they
were from 2018 - must have been
from the back of the
​storage ​​bin.

When
I stirred all this
green and brown stuff
together, they mixed & mingled,
creating a fertile space for decomposition.
It takes time, but not much, if I aerate the compost
by turning it over & making sure it gets good
& messy along the way. It smells like
an old barn, which I love, and
all that work makes
​me strong.

We are
in the midst of
a global pandemic. There
are riots & demonstrations throughout
the country. I'm angry, sad and very tired of feeling
complicit in a system I did not design or
choose. Turning compost is my
way of processing the
​all of it.

The
natural
cycle of life,
death & renewal
I witness in this pile is
also context for the other
continuum it includes - - The
shredded news, sometimes current
and sometimes from years past, that reveals
the causes and effects of policies
and actions over time. 

Mix &
mingle a diverse
bunch of decomposing matter,
turn it over once in a while and you get
soil to renew the earth from which it came; Create
policies that increase inequality and you get anger, frustration
and the perpetuation of an unfair system. It's all right
here in the compost behind my garage,
messy, smelly and beautiful
in a weird kind of
way.

In 2018,
when I composted
my Harvard and University
of Virginia diplomas, I experienced
the power of decomposition as not just a source of
life for the earth but also as a source of inspiration & renewal.
What seemed a dangerous & radical act at the time
did not cause the earth to shatter, but
instead freed me to reframe
​my narrative.

For two
years now, I've
been exploring what
it means to be the product of
privilege and to own my complicity
not just with the climate crisis, which was
the original impetus for my reflections on "Two
Degrees," but also with the social and
economic disparities that exist
as a result of our current
market economy.

Facing
truths is hard,
but when I go astray,
feeling tired & lost as I do now,
compost keeps me grounded. It is in that
pile behind the garage that clarity emerges: The power
of diversity & balance, the importance of
showing up & being patient,
and the beauty that
emerges from
the mess.

​Instead of
leaving my diplomas
in a frame in the attic, I tore them
up & let them break free as well. There is power
in recomposing, decomposing and reframing our narratives.
Sometimes, there truly is a tempest in the compost.
It's smelly & messy & hard to take, but it's
beautiful, too, and I'm ready for
whatever work is needed.
It builds strength of
​many kinds.

Yesterday,
the story was about
people - - crowds at the annual
Yard Sale where I purchased this dignified
bird, my friend Larry, who gave me these violets,
and Elmer, from whom we purchased
these River Birch trees over a 
​decade ago.

And then
there's dandelions,
showing up in random places,
a pesky weed for some, but a cheerful
harbinger of health for others.
It's all about the narrative
we choose.

The
dandelion
at the foot of
a tree, shaded by
daffodils feels different
from the dandelion blowing
in the wind on a grassy 
hillside at the
​landfill.

And the
hawk soaring
above that same landfill
inspires a different kind of reverence
than do robins digging
in my yard.

Please.
May I find hope
in a time of trouble. Thank 
you for the gifts that emerge. Forget
me not. The world is sweet, even though it
can be hard to focus & things feel
blurry when people & plants
try to share space. It's
possible, ​though.
So much is
​possible.

No.

No Smoking.

No Parking.

Positively No Parking.

And
definitely
no bad behavior,
because cameras are recording
even me, meandering around empty
​back allies in Hanover, NH
on this cold day
​in May.

There
are cracks
in the sidewalk...

and bricks everywhere
provide structure.

until
I look down
& see these leaves
emerge from
the grate...

and this
tree in a small
garden in the midst 
of it all,

and 
the word
​Please.