“By a garden is meant mystically a place of spiritual repose, stillness,
peace, refreshment, delight.”
John Henry Cardinal Newman
“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but
in having new eyes.”
Proust
“I don't know about you, but I practice a disorganized religion. I belong
to an unholy disorder. We call ourselves 'Our Lady of Perpetual Astonishment.'”
Kurt Vonnegut
“Everything that slows us down and forces patience, everything that sets us
back into the slow circles of nature, is a help. Gardening is an instrument of grace.”
May Sarton
Our summer arrived early this year.
(I have a confession. It's not true. Our summer arrived early last year. No such luck this year. And, after this winter, I needed to relive some sunshine.)
More often than not, summer doesn't show its mettle until after the smoke from the July 4th fireworks
has cleared. But this year, we had heat and no rain to speak of through the whole of June. This
is a conundrum in this neck of the wood, because we north westerners don't know what to do with
such a boon of fine weather. We've been mentally imprinted to expect dreariness, we have a corner
on the Prozac market, and are accustomed to taking it on the chin from all the jokes regarding
our national “rain and dreary” stereotype. Which is to say that it makes us reluctant to project
a confident or optimistic air with regard to our weather, knowing full well that the payback
for such presumption will be without restraint. So it's best to say nothing and hope for the
best (which is the same way I seem to handle relational conflict).
The other alternative is, of course, is to enjoy the great weather when it's here.
Which brings
me back to my garden.
This has been my first garden in two years. (Living in a rental home while our house was being
constructed left my gardening options limited.) Now I stay outside until dusk, near ten pm at
this latitude, and watch as the murkiness of nightfall slowly covers the horizon, as if skylight
itself is on a dimmer switch.
Of this much I am certain: Every garden is a healing space. And there are no two gardens alike.
Gardens touch us all, emotionally, spiritually, and physically. What Edith Wharton called “garden
magic,” each garden as a sort of enchantment of place, an intoxication, or spell that affects
you in all the senses.
I do, of course, feel the uncensored feedback of all professed “non-gardeners,” those who
claim neither inclination nor skill in the area of gardening (those lower down the spiritual maturity
chain). But you can fear not, I'm not here to make converts. And there's no advantage gained
by winning some moral spitting contest here—as to which avocation is best for the soul (although
we all know the right answer). But I will say this: there is solace in nature—in the Garden.
If you don't believe me, let me take you for a stroll, down by our pond. We'll sit on the
ledge rocks, listen to the frogs, watch the hummingbirds and let the sun soothe our regrets.
Just the other day, I was doing a garden consultation, talking with another island gardener.
We stood by a stand of lavender, breathing in the perfume. The woman stopped talking, her
body language enlivened by the community of bees (apparently in the middle of their lavender
harvest). She did a little dance of sorts. Can't tell you for sure, I've never seen it before.
She may have been hitting the communion wine for all I know. But downright giddy she was.
“Just this,” she says, finally pointing to the bees and the lavender, “makes me soooo happy.”
Truth is, I understood exactly what she was talking about.
It seems that gardens—like good stories—have a subversive affect. They enter below the radar
of our defenses. Beyond that place where everything is within our control. Where we
have a “handle on it.” Where there are no surprises, no curves to negotiate.
Then one day, if we're lucky, we get tired of keeping a straight face.
And control gives way
to gooseflesh.
And public opinion gives way to dancing.
And logic gives way to wonderment.
“One advantage of age,” she tells me as we wander the back paths, “I've let go a little.
I mean, I begin each day with my list, but the day never quite works out so conveniently.
So I've learned to give up my master plan. There's a good deal more
peace in learning to surrender to the moment.”
I said, “Amen,” and waited for the choir to do an a capella version of Amazing Grace. (And
thought to myself that it's not such a bad idea for all those master plans from
people who want to tell us how to live. Or what to do with all this time relegated to giddiness,
dancing and non-productivity.)
My new garden is large, and a bit beyond my capacity for control. It's too big
really, but that's only true if I need it to be fastidiously kempt. So it's a matter
of perspective. Do I want to bring order out of chaos? Or, do I want to embrace
a world with both order and chaos? I'm doing my best to choose the latter. Which
means learning to surrender my master plan and need for control, and sit for a
spell, enjoying Sabbath moments—times when I am fully aware, fully alive and embracing
the grace that comes with moments of non-productivity.
So we can fight it, or encourage it. Or in the words of ancient scripture, “remember it
and keep it holy.”
Off my front deck, Croccosmia Lucifer blooms, with flowers of deep cardinal red,
nodding near the airy foliage of Nandina “Moon Bay.” Bees scuttle and scurry, loading
up before last call. The sun settles behind the grove of fir trees.
Yes.
This is a healing space.
“. . .so, yes, I do experience a type of reverie as a gardener. But it is not something I control
or strive for. When I find spirituality in my garden, it seems to go hand in hand with hard work
and diligence. Like a burst of sunshine on a cloudy day, a feeling a peace will come over me and
grab me by surprise. I don't really know why or how it happens. But then again, I wouldn't want it
any other way.”
—Fran Sorin
