I am writing, as I often do, from my seat on the garden swing here at Bear Path Cottage. It is just past high noon, and the temperature is a toasty 87 degrees. Thank goodness for the shade provided by the canopy and the nearly constant breeze that make the heat tolerable, although I must confess to thinking longingly of the homemade iced chai that I left sitting in a mason jar on the kitchen counter.
The flowers, plants, and trees are all swaying with the wind, and without thinking about it, I put one bare foot on the ground to push the swing, so it moves in time with the garden. My entire being is joined in this slow and gentle dance, sliding away from worldly time and worldly thoughts, becoming part of the sweet magic of summer. The largest sunflower, nine feet tall with a face the size of a dinner plate, bows his head and bends a leaf in invitation. How easy and delightful to close my eyes and move into a world where one can waltz under the sun with such a stately, elegant partner.
Bee on a sunflower [B. Rhodes]
I end the dance and open my eyes when a persistent chirping calls me back into the other world. A pair of goldfinches have been daily visitors to the garden, primarily dining on fresh sunflower seeds. The bright yellow male and softer yellow and olive drab female move between the tall stalks, perching on leaf stems and sometimes on top of the flower heads. They are such pretty birds, so busy and so chatty, and their steady presence is a source of much joy. More than that, they have become a fun-size symbol of my deeper dive into working with natural and elemental energies.
This has been a weird summer. It started off out of balance and then life kept throwing sticks at the spokes of my wheels. All is well, but part of the reason that all is well is I took a hard look at my priorities after dealing with the first few sticks caused a lapse in garden maintenance.
To be clear, the primary factor in that review was the frustration and anger I directed at myself because “I should be able to do all the things.” Well, guess what, chickens? Should is a four-letter word.
I have known that for a long time, but occasionally, I need to be reminded of this fact. Who better to do that than the land spirits who share this space with me, especially when I was feeling grumpy? There I was, on the swing, trying to make a list of what needed to be done to get the gardens in order. I felt so overwhelmed, I put my pen and notebook down, put my feet on the ground, and focused on bringing myself to center. I managed to quiet my thoughts and was focusing on breathing when I heard one of the land spirits speaking.
“You don’t need to do anything out here. It’s a garden. Let it grow and see what happens.”
I am sure the spirit shrugged as it said that.
I replied before taking time to think. “You’ve given me that advice before. It doesn’t usually end well.”
After that I sat waiting for a response. The silence had a weight to it, like when you know someone is going to answer, but they are taking their time. Maybe giving you time to think, maybe organizing their own thoughts, maybe stacking existential Jenga blocks to keep time moving forward.
The reply came through quietly. I envisioned the spirit talking while keeping its eyes on the blocks. “You invited change into the garden. Let change do its thing.”
Another pause. “Besides, you always learn something.”
That was true. Sometimes I learn how much work it takes to pull volunteer plants after they get their roots set in. But the real lessons are deeper than that, and always worth the sweat and occasional blood. I conceded. The spirit was right. I committed to letting nature tend the gardens, and not stressing about what appeared to be going undone.
I have always enjoyed a wander about the gardens once or twice a day. I look at what is blooming or about to bloom or gone to seed and make notes about what needs to be taken care of. When I do work, I am never in a hurry. I might be deadheading dianthus or harvesting yarrow and disappear into a random chain of thought about connections between flowers and roots and the earth, or follow a bee in flight for 15 or 20 minutes. I love my gardens. I love that their beauty serves a purpose toward caring for the Earth. They have become my sanctuary and the touchstone for my relationship with this land and the spirits and creatures that inhabit it.
Even so, while I have been engaged in this relationship there has always been some ego involved – some imposition of will, some unintentional and unwise belief that I was in control, and that the visual and physical state of the gardens were a reflection of me. I think that over the course of this summer all of that has changed.
Morning glory [S. Barker]
I still spend time in some part or another of the gardens every day, but instead of looking for what must be done, I am keeping company with the many inhabitants. Sometimes I talk with them: plants, insects, animals, birds, lizards, the passing breeze, or sunlight. Most often, I sit among them and watch and listen to the ways in which they interact and communicate with each other. There have been times in the evening light when viewing through a soft gaze has revealed the illuminated lines of energy that map connections between beings. The bee that flies from boneset to Joe Pye to hyssop leaves a trail and a mark on each plant she touches, as does the tendril of morning glory that reaches for support.
Oh, the morning glory. Every year I plan to remove every bit of it before it can take hold, and every year I end up allowing it to do its thing around the porch. It is invasive and will crowd out native plants, but I am enchanted by the way the flowers play with and hold light in such a way that it seems to shine from within. The vines move on their own, without the wind or the departure or arrival of a pollinator giving them a push. What are they reaching for? I used to think they were moving toward the light, as sunflowers do, but having observed this behavior at night in the last few weeks, I am only more intrigued and slightly creeped out. The result, naturally, of letting it all go to see what happens.
The gardens are thriving and the balance is tipping toward a healthy ecosystem. The native plants are drawing increasing numbers of native pollinators and insects which in turn draw in a greater variety of birds and other wildlife, and those have already introduced more native plants such as jewelweed and New England aster. There are sometimes hundreds of pollinators in the front corner of this 1/3 of an acre of land. The butterfly presence includes monarchs, swallowtails, cabbage whites, skippers, sulphers, and fritillaries. There are also honeybees, bumble bees, carpenter bees, yellow jackets, paper wasps, cicada killers, and scoliid wasps; crickets, katydids, praying mantes, and too many more insects for me to name. Raccoons, rabbits, possums, and foxes come through more often than they did in the past, and black bear is an occasional guest.
I still harvest nutsedge as supplemental feed for my chickens, and yarrow, anise hyssop, coneflower, and a few other medicinal plants. I am mindful of the taking and practice a more intentional acknowledgement of gratitude and appreciation. This season I let the wild things have the juneberry and elderberry harvest, and deadhead plants only with a mind of increasing bloom time to benefit the pollinators.
A goldfinch in a sunflower [B. Rhodes]
Sitting on the swing, looking at all of this with fresh eyes, I can finally articulate the results of this lesson. I speak it out loud so the spirits can hear me. I am the caretaker of this space, but I am also part of the ecosystem. These are my gardens, my plants, my companions, my land, but I am also theirs.
The silence would be deafening if I could not feel the presence of the spirit. I am also feeling fatigued from this heat and wonder if that iced chai will still be cold. Surely a prompt is in order.
“I know you’re here,” I say. “What do you think?”
The answering voice sounds as though it is walking away. “I told you so.”
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