Common
Milkweed is really
not so common. The pods,
like a bird's beak, or perhaps an
alligator's head, add texture
​to the early Fall
garden.

Who
knew that all
kinds of bugs, in addition
to the well-known Monarch Butterfly,
appreciate the seeds. Is this one searching for
food, finding material for a nest, or
just playing in the lacy
​fibers?

Just
up the hill,
more pods open,
their silky seeds seductively
swaying, inviting me &
​my camera
to play.

These
Swamp Milkweed,
planted for the first time this
year, reminded me of the Monkshood I
planted for the first time earlier this summer. Their deep
​purple flowers, shaped like the cowl of an
actual monk's hood, captivated
me, as they, too, danced in
​the late afternoon
​light.

You
can imagine
my surprise when
I learned that every part of
the Monkshood plant, also known as
Wolfsbane, is highly toxic - - & I had planted
it by our terrace, right next to where
we sit! Of course I quickly
moved it to a more
​remote spot.

These
plants got me
thinking. I make so many
assumptions about plants & people.
Milkweed is quirky, but valuable for insects
and fiber artists; Mugwort might be considered a weed,
but it's capable of calming nerves; And Monkshood,
named for people who serve & protect 
is poisonous. 

What is
a gal to do? Every
year, it seems, putting the
garden 'to bed' inspires reflection.
This season, for example, I experienced the
impact boundaries have on the flow of energy as well
as the value of plant placement
to ensure safety.

What's
next? I have a 
hunch I'll be digging
into the power of assumptions
not just in the garden but also in the rest
of my life. There are just so many
beautiful plants & people
​to behold.

A worm
or some other
bug took a few bites 
out of these apples. Question
for the day: Do I hide or celebrate
these 'ugly fruit'? I'm increasingly done
with perfection of any kind, so here's what
emerged. I say, "welcome sweet
creatures. There's plenty
to go around."

It made
me think: Who
really said that a bite of an
apple leads to banishment? What
an absurd story. Apples provide essential
nourishment for the body, mind,
heart & soul.

And our
particular tree,
a gift from my in-laws
in 2014, bends but does not
break with time. What does it take
to be so flexible? What does
it understand & what
can it teach me?

While
I 'compost' the
issues -- race, political
discord, economic disparity and,
yes, that nagging issue, Climate Change,
it feeds on living mulches, provides
perches for birds & in spring
is a beautiful focal
point in the
garden.

It seems
ironic that this
year, with drought and
psychic tension in the universe,
it is more abundant than ever before.
This portrait reveals a collection of apples
from a much older tree that predates us by a few 
decades (on the left), and a few of our
yummy Honeycrisp in a bowl
made by my husband
thirty years ago
(right).

I love
how the soft
light plays on these
discarded cores and peels,
their transformation from apple to
delicious desserts & beautiful compost
a lesson in mindfulness.

While
turning the
apples into desserts, I
remembered when our apple
tree first produced five years ago. My
sister and I harvested the entire crop of eight
precious fruit to bring on a cross country road trip from 
New Hampshire to Idaho. We rationed those
home grown Honeyscrip, allowing
ourselves one a day -- each
bite, a precious
gift.

We
experienced
joy and a powerful
sense of abundance even
though there was scarcity -- Only
one apple a day. As we drove across North
Dakota & into Montana, we ate the
final apples, savoring their
​crispy juiciness.

This
year, there's
drought. The leaves
are sickly. My gratitude is intense,
but subdued. Will this more fragile tree
break from the weight of it all?
Did I care enough?

My
relationship
with this tree is ancient,
and I know it's too late for regrets.
Between wheelbarrows full of mulch I stop
and eat an apple. "Don't worry," it
seems to say. "I am strong
and so are you."

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. 

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.

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.

It hit me,
though, as the 
pile got smaller, that
this is another one of those
routines I do all the time that is,
on the one hand, just another item on
the endless list, but on the other hand, is an
integral part of a bigger climate action narrative, a
story in which I find joy in routines that feel
good unto themselves but are also
part of a larger creative
​vision.

Like 
how I can
share photographs
of a previous year's leaves
on the wall of a gallery and by doing
so inspire others to think differently about
leaves, carbon and our
​material world. 

I was
in a great mood
because I had set the day aside
to work on a major embroidery project
I'm exploring this
summer. 

I think I was
able to finish about
half a leaf between each
interruption. By the time I went
out to hang the laundry, I was feeling 
really frustrated by how slow my progress was.
I'd been feeling bad about other things too. Like the fact
I hadn't written a blog post for more than a 
month and that I hadn't finished
the next playbook
in my series.  ​

But while standing
on the terrace and hearing the
baby birds and seeing a monarch butterfly
head toward the volunteer milkweed in the orchard
we planted, I remembered that not long ago,
none of this was here: no terrace, solar
panels, shrubs or perennials, and
no monarchs or baby birds
​learning to sing.

Sometimes I
​just have to consciously
remember how things really work,
which is why when I dumped the compost and
took yet another photograph, I remembered the power of
showing up and of big little things. 10 pounds of compost a week
adds up to 500 pounds a year -- a ton over four years. 
That's a lot of food diverted from the landfill.
It's also a lot of photographs
celebrating its
​beauty.