At several recent garden talks and lectures, I have been puzzled not by the pronouns he, she and they, but the overuse of the first-person singular pronoun. My staff, my plants, my garden seem loaded and have me asking what place does I (and me, my and mine) have in the garden and the ecosystem?
In a political moment where egocentrism and self-interest seem to be defining every decision, when one talks about gardening, perhaps the right possessive pronoun is not my—my garden, my plants—but the more inclusive ours. When selecting plants for the garden, should one be thinking of one’s own needs and desires solely or about something larger. Are we planting that tree, shrub or perennial with only oneself in mind, or are we thinking about what its life is beyond us—the ecosystem it contributes to, the life of a tree well beyond our own time on earth, or merely meeting our own needs for a particular moment in time?
I know we all garden for our own pleasure and satisfaction on some level, but I think gardening is at its best when we are all thinking beyond the moment and towards a greater collective good. As I sit and look at plant catalogs and plot and plan additions to the landscape at our house, I am determined to be thinking more broadly about what is being brought onto the patch of earth that I play some role in stewarding—and in a moment where the news cycle has me feeling powerless, this leaving behind of my own selfish desires feels like something I can do in a world where things seem to be careening a bit out of control.
Thinking about the habitat we are creating, the wildlife we are supporting, the future overstory of trees that we are planting and how they will move forward beyond us has not always been at the center of our connection to gardening. This is not an argument against having an aesthetic sense or even having things around us that we love, but it is about understanding that each plant we bring into our landscape has a life and an impact well beyond how it satisfies us. Lately, I struggle when I visit the great gardens of the 19th century created by robber barons to demonstrate their dominance over the world around them. I no longer see the beauty of their grand parterres and infrastructure made of marble and stone, often heading into the woods beyond for a landscape to which I can connect. I find myself charmed by gardens that seem to have a love of plants and how they perform at its center. These gardens do not necessarily lack a sense of design; they are just not necessarily as anthrocentric in the definition of beauty.
As I look at the seedheads feeding the birds in February and the barren branches of an oak that give them a place to rest as they seek sustenance on their journey north, I am taken by the beauty that comes from the plants themselves and the communities they support. Such thoughts make it easier to read the morning news and still have some hope for the world we live in.
And as I garden this season, I hope that I will ask who I am gardening for and have an answer that is not first person singular. We all do what we can.
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A gardener grows through observation, experimentation, and learning from the failures, triumphs, and hard work of oneself and others. In this sense, all gardeners are self-taught, while at the same time intrinsically connected to a tradition and a community that finds satisfaction through working the soil and sharing their experiences with one another. This column explores those relationships and how we learn about the world around us from plants and our fellow gardeners.
