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. It seems I mistook Monkshood for Mugwort, a totally different plant, but one with an equally odd name beginning with "M." Mugwort, which I had thought was a weed, is actually a well-known medicinal! 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. What will you explore about yourself this winter?
I know I am not always what I seem. What about you?
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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." It's true! If you plant it, they will come. At first, back in 2010, I loved straight lines & beds high enough to deter our new puppy. All I wanted was to grow lots of food as efficiently as possible. By 2013, the compost had moved out; Three layers were too hot & dry; And a new north-south alignment just felt better. 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. By 2018, cucumbers emerged from beneath pole beans, borage invited pollinators, and there was hardly a need to water, as the composted and well-shaded soil sustained itself throughout the summer. I had finally created my own 'Gaia's Garden' paradise. So it seems strange that I would take it apart & essentially start over. 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... ...until I planted the echinacea and finally understood that gardening is not about how many peas I harvest. For me, it's about how I can heal myself so that together my garden and I can help heal the earth. Summer ReadingIn addition to re-reading Gaia's Garden, these others books have also captivated and inspired me this summer. It feels as if the earth is in all of our hands right now. Digging deeper is the only way to go.
Drew, Sarah Gaia Codex Hemenway, Toby Gaia's Garden Jewell, Jennifer The Earth in Her Hands Kincaid, Jamaica My Garden (Book): Penniman, Leah Farming While Black 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. But with my son ready to help, we gave new form to this part of our yard. By mid June there was a layer of healthy soil & mulch. By mid July, I had planted the hillside with a cool mix of native plants, including Gro-low Sumac and Joe Pye Weed. In the process, I co-opted some more of the lawn, which really is just a nasty water hog that has no nutritional value. 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. From prior experiments, I realized that it was all about edging and the clear definition of boundaries. The bricks that had been in the front of the original bed for decades were not strong enough to contain the power of what this part of our land was becoming. 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. Power emerges when when there are natural connections among people, plants & place. Earlier today, I could almost hear the conversation between the two varieties of SummerSweet, one in the front and the other along the north side of the house. It was as if Karen who introduced me to "Ruby Spice" in 2016 was actually talking with Kelsey, who, working off what we already had, integrated "Hummingbird" into the front design in 2018. Together, in 2020 they provide a mid-summer banquet. I love how these various groundcovers, shrubs and trees embody the positive spirits of the many plants people throughout the Upper Valley who nurtured them so that someone like me could come along and use them to create a garden. And now that garden comforts and inspires because of how a few small stones in various shapes and sizes can contain a mix of plants while also enabling life-giving energy to flow. Local ResourcesAt 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? That's how I feel right now with all that is happening in our country and around the world. It is easy to ignore things I can not see, whether because they are actually out of sight or because I have such a narrow point of view. 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 when the rain stopped this afternoon I went to visit those same bushes, this time with my camera. In that cool late afternoon light that cast such appealing shadows, I stopped disparaging these forgotten shrubs and instead paid attention to their actual shape, colors and texture. Buried in those demanding & overpowering grasses, though, these blueberry bushes revealed poise & resilience. 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. A simple please & thank you. A call for spring and gratitude when it finally arrives. That's how my week has been. A simple call... Please. And a response. Thank you. There's not a lot more a gal can say. Still feeling overwhelmed by the reality of our 'new normal,' but finding solace outside, with camera, texture & color. And as happens, when I frame leaves or flowers, stories emerge. Today blankets of Sweet Woodruff reveal the truth about perennials, how they sleep, creep, then leap. 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. I love how even when alone in the garden or on a hillside in an industrial part of town, I am with others, part of a narrative that transcends the weather on a single day or my state of mind in a given moment. 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 seems absurd, really, that a gal has to take care of things at home even when there are so many cool things happening, at, say, her first solo show. But autumn does come to an end, and snow does appear and the temperatures do start to fall, so one does have to take care of things. It's funny, though, how the list evolves over time. Just as one thing is finally crossed off, another activity or two or three gets added on, like mulch on the garden and those perennials that keep coming back... I love, though, how I save my favorite activity for last - - shredding leaves to use in the compost in the spring when things are wet and need a boost of dry carbon. It's a thing for me. Calvin joins in the fun, begging me to throw him sticks while I methodically mow the leaves in the still, dry garage. Spread them out, consolidate, spread again. Back and forth I help break them down so they can more efficiently integrate with all that nitrogen in the melting, early spring compost. 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. For me,
climate action and creativity converge to inspire joy and new ways of being - - all the time. Happy Summer! This was my view a few days ago while hanging the laundry. It takes my breath away every time I go onto our terrace. 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. But life kept getting in the way. You know how it can be - managing the compost, changing toilet-paper rolls, drinking water to stay hydrated on a hot day, cleaning up after the dog made a mistake... and, of course, doing the laundry. 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. I also remembered how exciting it was to see these peonies and iris bloom together after we had transplanted them that first year with the terrace garden - that was 8 years ago. Some days I have to remind myself that over time, lots of little actions accumulate and become something larger than themselves. A single stone becomes a terrace. A single flower becomes a garden. A single stitch in a small leaf becomes a re-imagined dress. 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. So this week I'm celebrating Big Little Things. Like the fact that after creating thousands of Compost Compositions, I finally have two in a juried show this summer and I'll have a few dozen in a solo show this fall - - All at AVA Gallery in Lebanon, NH. Friends told me that if I kept showing up for my work and for myself, cool things would happen. They were right. They are. Who knew the simple climate action of composting would lead me to become a photographer? Who knew that photographing that compost could lead to learning about embroidery and the craft of remaking old clothes? Who knew that the act of remaking old things would inspire new ways of thinking and new ways of being? How are you celebrating the Big Little Things in your day or your week? Remember: When you show up for yourself and those you love, cool things can happen. Messages for the Future @ AVA Gallery AVA's 2019 Summer Juried Exhibition July 12 - August 21 Monday Morning's Activities (not listed above):
Writing & mailing post cards to daughter and mother-in-law; Emptying the dehumidifier in my basement studio; Packing up some college supplies for a friend, who happens to be passing through, to take down to DC so that we won't have so much to manage in August when our son goes to college there; Managing a broken nail that I got while packing those supplies; Receiving a packet of pachysandra from a neighbor with whom I had just spoken during my morning walk - - She mentioned she had more pachysandra than she needed; I mentioned I could use some. I thought the plan was for me to go over and harvest it. What a gift! And it all happened between 9am and 1pm. Who knew trees could be so tricky? When looking for shade in a parking lot, I head for the trees. When seeking a place to hang a hammock, I look for trees. When wandering in the woods, I revel in the play of light through the leaves and branches. Trees, and the forests they inhabit, truly are the lungs of the earth. They absorb our poisons and release the oxygen we need to breath. Why then, given this reverence, would I advocate cutting them down in order to install solar panels? To be clear, I love trees. I also love moving toward a 100% renewable future. If cutting trees allows me to reduce my personal and our collective dependence on toxic fuels, then it's something I am willing to consider, just as I am willing to consider altering mountain or ocean views in order to promote wind power (that's a different conversation). The fact is, I knew nothing about carbon sequestration when we cut dozens of trees to clear a view and to make room for more sun in 2004. It never occurred to me to do a cost-benefit analysis because I didn't know there was a choice. I loved trees from a distance, but hadn't really paid close attention to them. Our goals were to create a soccer field for the kids, a vegetable garden, and a beautiful near and distant view. It's been almost 15 years and a lot has changed. We've planted a River Birch 'glen,' a bird-friendly hillside and a rain garden. We've installed solar panels and have a great lawn for all manner of sports. Each year, however, I become more and more curious about the trade-offs we made in order to create our own private Eden. So here's what I've learned. On the most basic level, it's easy to plant new trees that serve multiple purposes but that won't block the sun. Fruit and nut trees, for example, absorb carbon and produce food. Flowering trees of all kinds provide nectar for pollinators and berries for birds. By cutting down all those evergreens all those years ago, we made room for a significantly more diverse landscape the provides food for us and a host of flying creatures. When I did some research, I learned the following about the tree-solar trade-off. It takes 1.106 lbs of Co2 to produce 1 kwh of electricity so if you install a 5,000 kwh system, that would avoid 5,530 lbs of Co2 emissions each year. No two trees are the same: A 30 year old white oak absorbs 60 lbs of carbon a year; A white pine absorbs 193 lbs of carbon a year; A fast growing red oak can absorb 240 lbs of carbon a year. In Hanover and much of New England, we have a lot of white pines. 5,530 lbs/193 lbs = 28.65 trees. If you cut less than 28 trees to maximize your solar options, don’t feel guilty in terms of carbon absorption and avoidance - - If you are cutting white pines. I'm a photographer who loves trees and light. I'm also a gardener who loves backyard biodiversity and a world free from fossil fuel dependence. In my quest for a sustainable future for my family, I am constantly making trade-offs. We needed shade for our terrace and planted a tree whose maximum height is 30 feet, just below our rooftop panels. I had wanted an elegant oak, but needed to compromise as oaks get too large and would shade our rooftop panels. Who knew we would now have more than 15 varieties of trees on our property where before we just had white pines and a few oaks? In July, we considered electric lawn care and the many alternatives to gas-powered machines, including reducing the actual size of your lawn. This month, we continue the lawn care theme, but address it from the point of view of the trees and solar power. Both absorb the light. Both generate energy from that light. At the moment, however, we need to maximize the rate at which we transition to renewables. If that transition necessitates cutting some trees, I am willing to do so, especially if that creates more light for more diverse plantings and clean energy. Sources:
Tree Facts: Arbor Environmental Alliance Tree Math: New England Clean Energy (Tree Math 2, Sept. 2015) Sierra Club: Hey! Mr. Green Should I Cut? (November 2016) |
Evelyn R. Swett
reframing the narrative in community and with myself, finding transformation and joy in the mess of it all Let's ReFrame!
is a somewhat regular 'viewsletter' that hopefully inspires joy & transformation. It will include links to recent blog posts & updates about my work. Oh, and I promise I won't share your information (that would be so uncool) and I don't actually do promotions, but that text is required. Archives
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