Closer to Fine

You win some, you lose some.

 Yep.

 Success is a journey, not a destination. The doing is often more important than the outcome. Arthur Ashe

Ok, I can go with that one. Seems like something I have heard all my life, in one way or another. And how about this one:

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

Albert Einstein

Or maybe we could throw in :

Be careful what you wish for.

This has been the summer in my garden that has tested- and proved- many age old adages such as those above. Instead of fierce heat, we've had cool moderation that gently nudged spring into summer. Instead of clear blue and beating sun, we've had a sky filled to overflow with the richest of cloud formations. And we've had RAIN. Rain we've prayed for over radar maps for day after day, year after year. Rain whose half year totals rival a large handful of annual totals. (http://www.srh.noaa.gov/ffc/?n=rainfall_scorecard)

What I've grown accustomed to seeing and doing in summer has all changed, and in some ways, I seem to be starting all over again in learning how to think about gardening.

For example, take my vegetable garden. In the last couple of years I have grown increasingly confident in my efforts to grow certain vegetables. In fact, the greatest horticultural accomplishment of my career came just this year, with my first crop of real carrots

(not those orange nubs with all the green fluff I was so good at growing) I had taken an interest in growing heirloom tomatoes, and enjoyed picking out varieties that would suit our climate. This year I chose Tombola Mix

Tombola Mix

New Yorker

New Yorker

Southern Nights

 and Southern Nights . 

It was my guess that Southern Nights would be best suited for the heat overnight; that Tombola would produce many different size, shape and colored tomatoes for salads, and that New Yorker would suffer. WRONG!  As of yesterday, the Tombola Mix has produced absolutely gorgeous, lush plants without a fruit, and only a very few flowers. The New Yorker plants are healthy and loaded down with fruit, some of which has already ripened. And the Southern Nights are all but dead! No doubt the rain has had something to do with all this, but my careful plans had not accounted for this variable.

Plants that have performed beautifully for years and years- especially in the drought- have quickly given up the ghost in the early summer rain. Others that may have been known for drought tolerance but not wet tolerance have surprised and amazed me with their vigor.

What the books say isn't always what happens.
In some ways, I like that. I've always been interested in testing the plants in different situations just to see what they will take. Maybe I can't predict the weather, but I want to try to know how the plants will respond.I also like just watching the progress. Nothing ever grows perfectly evenly. Some years the flowers are early, or small, or profuse. Some seasons the foliage is sumptuous, the fruit is prolific. 
On the one hand, it can be discouraging. So much work goes into gardening that the losses can be disheartening, and even expensive. On the other hand, our great success stories are exhilarating, and worth their carrot weight in gold! It's what draws me to gardening. It's the sun, the rain, the physical labor, the dirt,  the thought, the interaction. It's the challenge against the odds of that game that brings the enjoyment. The ideal garden is an oxymoron- there is no such thing. But the pure pleasure in the capture of a perfect garden moment......now that's priceless.

"....the less I seek my soul in some definitive, closer I am to fine" Amy Ray and Emily Saliers- 
The Indigo Girls     http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=miqUNlX6ig8

A Simple Life

We've just passed a monumental event in the astronomical calendar - the "Supermoon". The local and national news outlets were all abuzz for days before. I am not sure why, since the majority of their audience is urban, and could not enjoy much of the scene except when the orb was overhead. But as I get older, I seem to fall for these "once in a lifetime" calls, even though the last supermoon was a mere 18 years ago, and maybe I will be alive for the next one. (Wikipedia: The Moon's distance varies each month between approximately 357,000 kilometers (222,000 mi) and 406,000 km (252,000 mi) due to its elliptical orbit around the Earth (distances given are center-to-center).^[4][5][6]
According to NASA, a full moon at perigee is up to 14% larger and 30% brighter than one at its farthest point, or apogee. The full Moon occurring less than one hour away from perigee is a near-perfect coincidence that happens only every 18 years or so.<sup>[7])

Here in the country, we relish each full moon. Any excuse to witness the pull of the lunar face gives us a special occasion. I can count over a dozen special full moon occasions without a blink of an eye. And with Joe we mark some piece of every moon phase via telephone if not closer.

Hopefully, when exhorted to witness such a phenomenon, I will be sufficiently ignorant of the actual timing. That gets me out in time to see the sun go down. Magnificent, in just about any weather, really, but we've had clouds and intermittent rain enough to give us some variety. Look west for a clear glow. East, in search of the moon, leads to a very subtle but enjoyable reflection of colors from the west on those eastern clouds.</sup> 

Then finally I spot it edging above those lovely pink and purple clouds on the horizon. The "find" is exciting on it's own, since the location on the horizon is always a bit of puzzle.  From then on, it's a smile on the rise. Clouds and colors change, sounds in the background mute. If I let go, it seems it is just me and the moon connected in the moment.

And then, with darkness descending, it's all "ahhhh". The rising moon is hypnotic- maybe even an instinctive reaction evolved over millions of years. It takes me out of the present, into the deep expanse of the space between  touch and sight. The very incremental steps from light to dark,and then from dark to moonlight, unveil the slow, steady, constant of a day- nothing remains the same, always.

We came all this way to explore the Moon, and the most important thing is that we discovered the Earth.  Bill Anders

What a difference a rain makes

I am stuck inside today. It is raining now, and they say it plans to rain for the rest of the day, at least. Does that sound like a complaint? Well, ok. Maybe a little. But after years of drought coupled with intense heat, I shouldn't complain. And after time in the last month to visit gardens in the area, I am reminded- finally- of the reasons for this blog title. We've had such an abundance of good soaking rain this winter and spring. And it continues now into summer. 

Gardens are really lush this year; 

flowers are huge and abundant; colors are vibrant and rich. 

If you'll permit me this little mental exercise, I think it's been a good thing to have been so deprived. Hydrangeas, for example, have bloomed every year, even in the worst drought months. I've gotten used to small flower heads, dull colors, and quick fade.

 This year I can hardly believe the difference, and it is so energizing!


Once again I see why this is a favorite of southern gardeners.
I am almost compelled to get my tape measure out to boast about bloom size. I've been so much more attentive to pruning, because this year, the plants are growing instead of just surviving.


Textures and colors grab my attention. Conifers have been particularly robust and statuesque. While they love good drainage, it is easy to see that they love the extra water, too.

Take the time to look at the details. Take the time to share them with your gardening friends. The rain might stop any day now, but we can enjoy the results of yesterday's rain today.

Sometimes it takes rain
To make the flowers grow
Sometimes it takes real pain
Before real joy one knows
Sometimes it takes tomorrows
To understand days gone by
Sometimes before the laughter
There comes heavy sigh
Sometimes it takes the midnight hour
To value morning light
Sometimes it takes the longest mile
Before things come insight
Sometimes you often wonder
Why your heart can get so sore
But its the rocky paths in life
That makes you cherish the smooth roads more!

- Unknown

Fine Tuning

Finally the spring season is slowing down. Of course there is still plenty of work to do, but the pace of the work now bends to the heat, the continued blessing of afternoon showers, and the absence of deadlines. I especially love the leisure time of early light, before the sun comes up. The temperatures are muted then, as well as the colors, the wind, my thoughts, and the length of the "to do" list. I can just look, enjoy, and take some pictures, wherever I am.

 Now I have the time and inclination to step back a bit and let the natural symmetry flow....I've also made the choice to spend my time listening to music I have been missing.

It seems to calm my thinking, to mellow my moods, and to open up new rhythms.  When I can relax and step back as I step out, I see interesting patterns- like musical themes- echoing, modulating, recapitulating.

 A secondary theme includes the rich abundance of buds and their resulting fruits or cones. I am not sure I have noticed how often they line up up like staccato notes.

 Even raindrops will hang in linear unison like eighth notes that alternate and repeat.

Needles appear and expand into flowers; pendulous branches appear to be ghostly reminders of a haunting melody. Round, full , solid notes stand us in the center of the natural recital. Such a rich concert of magical musical phrases and colors deserves our attention from time to time.



T

“The earth has music for those who listen.”

― George Santayana

Red Threads

"An invisible red thread connects those who are destined to meet regardless of time, place or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but it will never break." -Chinese proverb

I am lucky. At least that's what I think most of the time. Not only do I put my fingers on the pulse of  a part of nature every day. I also brush those fingertips across the arteries of the plant lover's world to measure the heartbeats of lovely people I've never met. I've been saying for some time that real plant people are the best. I've got loads of good friends and customers and acquaintances that prove that axiom over and over.

But over the years, I've had increasing anecdotal evidence that plant lovers are all bound to each other by esp, or biology, or by genetics, psychology, or ancestral memory. Or maybe it is just a red thread.

For instance: I've had a year long casual correspondence with a woman from Arkansas. She came to me via my website when she wanted to purchase some Hydrangea quercifolia 'Harmony', one of the more unusual Oakleaf Hydrangeas. I had a few left that I could ship, but she wanted a dozen or more and I was almost out. Instead of looking elsewhere, she said she would wait if I would have more in the spring. Spring came, and she contacted me to make sure I was ready for her order. As noted on my calendar, I was ready, and could ship the plants out that end of March, when her new garden area would be ready. So, we finalized the order and shipping date, and she told me about the new Oriental style bridge in her garden that would have these Hydrangeas as a backdrop. I responded politely that it sounded lovely, and that I hoped the winter had not been too cold there and that spring would soon be here. And she responded back,"This has been not the best winter because I lost my husband on Jan. 29th.  So, I plan to garden with a vengeance and keep really busy this Spring. "

No longer was this a simple business transaction. Anyone whose plan to deal with grief was to "garden with a vengeance" was now a family member to me; a shared soul. It did not matter that I knew nothing of her, or her husband, or her garden, or even Arkansas! Instantly, I felt I had known her for years, watched her bear the loss, and now I was sure that those plants she'd been patiently waiting for me to send her were part of her recovery plan before she even knew she would really need them.

Or this: Early last fall, I was contacted by a woman who wanted me to come speak to her garden club in Tucker- about an hour and a half away. I explained that I would consider it, but needed to charge a small fee for my time and gas, etc. She said her club was made up of elderly ladies, and that they rarely paid speaker fees. So I offered to have them come out for a tour of the nursery and a talk on any topic for free. She continued to explain that the ladies were mostly homebodies, and many were downsizing to apartments and condos. Many did not really even own gardens anymore. I was discouraged, and said I would think about it. But secretly, I figured this would be a waste of my time.
About two weeks later, the woman from the phone call and a friend drove out to the nursery to try to talk me into doing the springtime talk to her group. They both seemed impressed with our place. We walked and talked, and wandered around topics that might appeal to the group. I offered the idea of container gardening as an easy means to keep even an apartment dweller in touch with their love of digging in the dirt and watching plants grow. They agreed, and said they would find a way to collect the fees if I would just come in April. So I put it on the calendar.

Fall proceeded into winter, and soon, it was April. I was overwhelmed with the spring rush to get the nursery ready, the coming sales, the "too tired" longer days. But now was that morning to give the time I had promised to this group of non-gardening garden clubbers. Why had I been so stupid to fall for their entreaties? What would it get me, besides a little farther behind?
I loaded up the truck with some demo plants, a pot or two, some soil, and a small planted hypertufa pot that I had agreed to donate for them to raffle off to help pay me. I had a chip on my shoulder, but I had agreed, so I was just going to do it. I drove in through rush hour traffic to the meeting site at a private residence.
When I got there, the small 60's house with the flag was easy to find- it had cars up and down the street on either side of it. I carried my plants in to find the room packed like sardines full of smiling faces. I got started, and I could see by those faces that they were hanging on every word. They had questions. They had comments, suggestions, and stories. Someone yelled out "Road Trip!" when I told them where the nursery was. One woman would not let me leave without buying the first two plants I offered as a combination. Another compared notes about her hypertufa recipe and mine. A third, the winner of my raffled pot, insisted that she needed to

"touch" its creator so she would have good luck growing it. She gave me a big bear hug to seal the deal. After a big round of applause, I packed up the few plants and pots that were left, and headed home.
How could I have been so stupid? I thought I would waste my precious time. But instead, by sharing my passion for gardening, I touched the red thread in each of those lifetime gardeners, and all of a sudden, we were destined to meet that day. I've never had a more appreciative and attentive audience in all my years of giving talks to groups. And they reminded me how much my passion must be shared to be fully enjoyed.
So now I am trying to remember: no matter how tangled or stretched my ego and patience get, that thread will never break. Gosh, am I lucky.

Another Step on the Road to Damascus

Epiphany. Bombshell. Lightening Bolt. Flash. Revelation. Eye-Opener. Whatever you want to call it, I was struck yesterday. I had worked hard, enjoyed a bit of warm winter sun, tired myself out, and thought I would take a few pictures in the last light before I headed inside for the evening. I showered, changed, and headed back to my computer to download the photos. That's where it happened.

Quince Bud

 I looked at my photos and realized that I really don't see anything the way I used to. I've had these flashes before and remember realizing the difference as I learned about love, as I studied plants, as I raised my children. All that has been a cumulative endeavor, and I am aware of it as it gains momentum in my head.

Chaffin- Bluets in gravel

Yesterday was different. When I looked at the photos I had taken, it was as if I were seeing with

Moss Wash

Susan Cofer's eyes as the pictures came out of my camera.
 (http://www.high.org/Art/Exhibitions/Susan-Cofer.aspx)
 

" I've always been fascinated by the tiniest of things......'

Cofer- Levavi Oculos

Chaffin- Foggy Morning

Astonished, I looked again. Then I started thinking about what I had been doing. In some real sense, I had just been cataloging the day, the plants that were "saying" something; just keeping up the record.

Cofer-  Approaching Eternal

Chaffin- pine wood block

 But I was also looking at them in an abstract way, as a part of the natural world, as universal shapes, figures, motions. Now don't get me wrong. I am NOT saying I have discovered the secret to life, the treasure of Pandora's box, or any other such maxim. Nor am I giving any specific definition to anyone else's artwork.


 I have realized in a quick look at a few pictures how art has trained my eye and sharpened my view of the world. Or maybe how  the natural world is more and more now my art.

Cofer- Fall Decomposition

Chaffin-  Camellia  'Sawada's Mahoghany'

It is not quite that simple, of course. And is not a new idea, I know. I have always been captivated by Ansel Adams' dramatic photography of natural wonders, and seduced by the rich, raw, romantic, rhythmic paintings of Georgia O'Keefe .

But I have always held the artwork out as an exercise in mental expansion, without realizing that the vision of the artists would seep into the new open spaces in my mind.

Chaffin- table and benches

Cofer- Untitled Red Driftwood

This prompted me to look thru some Georgia O'Keefe pictures as I was thinking about this coincidence. I found this quote:



"When you take a flower in your hand and really look at it, it's your world for the moment. I want to give that world to someone else."
            Georgia O'Keefe

O'Keefe- The White Flower

Chaffin -White Camellia

More than anything else these days, I find that I want to share the wonder of plants with someone else. It is the best gift I can muster

And, as Ansel Adams said 

"My last word is that it all depends on what you visualize"