A recent article in The Atlantic defines two paths to happiness, that of the Stoic and that of the Epicurean. The former strives for happiness through a sense of duty and purpose; the latter through freedom from pain and stress, or, if you will, through pleasure. As I read the article, I struggled to place myself in one of these categories. And then, as I thought about the gardeners I know, I began to wonder who was an Epicurean and who was a Stoic and how did it affect their ability to garden.
So who did I place into the Stoic category? Native plant advocates who saw their gardens as a way of saving the ecosystem and the planet. Plant collectors who harbored and protected collections of rare plants, often nonnative, that they feared were disappearing from their place of origin. Organic gardeners whose adamancy about their approach could put others off. These gardeners have taught me so much about the horticultural bounty of the planet and about the special value of every species, including ourselves. To me, though, they often appeared to garden from fear and anxiety, fretting over weather and plants that appeared to be struggling; any joy they felt was not apparent. I have loved these gardeners for their passion and purpose, but I have always felt that I did not live fully among them.
On the Epicurean side were the people whom others might define more as decorators than as gardeners. They often loved plants solely for their foliage or flowers and for the pleasure of their appearance. Their gardens often contained carefully trimmed boxwood hedges and artwork to serve as frames and foils for the beauty and form of their plants. Some might define them as Garden Club gardeners, but they often know what it takes to keep a plant thriving, and conversely are not afraid to get rid of plants that cannot perform to their liking. I have learned much from these gardeners throughout the years, especially when it comes to planting combinations or to evaluating a plant’s viability in my garden. If a Stoic garden reminds one of a science museum in its systematic approach to collecting, visits to these Epicurean gardens are like a visit to the Frick — a chance to see what another individual has found to be beautiful and worth maintaining over the years. I am fortunate to count Epicurean gardeners among my friends too, and they have taught me to see the beauty of a rose, the glory of a flower, the shimmering seed heads of a grass, and the artful beauty of a plant reaching up for the spring light. But, just as with the Stoics, I am at once among these gardeners and also apart from them.
If there is a group to which I belong, or to which I at least aspire to belong, it is that of those who search for happiness in the garden through both a sense of purpose and a sense of pleasure. Amy Goldman, who works hard to preserve rare heirloom varieties of vegetables, but also takes pleasure in their beauty and taste, personifies this category of gardener. Through her artfully written and photographed books, she has made me see the beauty in the world of economic plants from tomatoes and peppers to cabbages and melons. She so effortlessly makes the argument for seeing both the pleasure and purpose of things that one is unaware that such an approach is not universal.
Others embody this category for me as well, and a few of them are no longer with us. I think of Jack Lenor Larsen, John Fairey, and Henriette Suhr, three gardeners whom I have had the pleasure of knowing, who set a pattern not only for how to garden, but how to live, as well as how to leave this earth. Their ability to connect to both purpose and beauty, to my mind, eroded their fear of death. Even when fretting over a cold snap or deep freeze that might take a plant down, they each understood the cycle of life. I remember how Henriette talked with great earnestness about preserving open space and supporting causes like the Environmental Defense Fund, but how her voice could also soften and fill with joy as she described the flowers of an orchid blooming over her kitchen sink. And every February for the rest of my life, I will remember Henriette’s voice. Some frosty morning she would phone, fretting about a freezing rain and what it will do to the plants in her garden, followed days later by a call in which she would be enchanted by the arrival of the snowdrops and hellebores that graced her home at Rocky Hills with their presence at the beginning of each season.
I do not know how one enters the pantheon of these gardeners, but I do know that in the years ahead I will strive to allow purpose and beauty to co-exist in my garden, bringing in native plants that I know help support the world around me, but also including a few of Henriette’s beloved hellebores that are there simply because they give me pleasure.
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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.
