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
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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. 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. But during the past few days, Calvin and I have visited the course frequently, noticing changes more subtle than a missing bench or sign. 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. Is it magic - - these pesky acorns becoming vibrant sources of shade & food? Maybe, but they've got to go... ...to make room for this Sweet Woodruff, a dainty & mighty medicinal herb & groundcover. I love this kind of work. The problem is clear & the solution simple. The problem of rain barrel drainage in the veggie garden was equally clear, but the solution more complex than pulling a few 'weeds.' But again, it's such satisfying work. The solution elegant. As happens, though, solving one thing leads to another. Like this wonderful scented shrub whose name escapes me. It was great when first planted, but it's now outgrown that spot, creating a barrier & not an invitation. 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. Honoring
these places feeds me & gives me strength for the next challenge inviting a solution. And sometimes the solution involves nothing more than patience, as the herb garden reveals between the beginning and the end of June. 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. Once I hit 50, though, my confidence with clippers increased significantly in the garden and in my life. Experience showed me that it really is OK to cut free some (but not all) roots in order for a plant, or for me, to grow. 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. Who knows
what beauty will emerge from this call to dig even deeper? 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. 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. It has taken me a week to craft this post. My whole being seeks balance free from anxiety, but it is an anxious and uncertain time. What to do? Instead of leaving Shakespeare's volume unopened, I tore it apart, allowing the narrative to break free and become something new. 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. 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. 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. Yellows seem particularly pronounced, warnings inspiring discomfort, 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. Please.
One word, simple & inviting. Threats disappear. No more cold and fear. Just one word. Please. |
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
December 2020
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