At a moment in the year when we are asked to think about what we are grateful for, it is hard for me not also to think about what else I might appreciate having in my life. And as a gardener, it is hard not to fantasize about gardening in another climate —or in another country (regardless of the politics of the one we are living in or dreaming about). And, on the day after Thanksgiving, I will be delighted to indulge my dreams about gardening in Italy.
Gardener and writer Clark Lawrence is coming to Dewey Hall in Sheffield on Friday, November 28 to screen a film about his garden in Italy and to share his adventures of going from Manassas, Virginia, to Italy, where he lives a life that feels like a re-gendered Italian reboot of “Eat, Pray, Love.” Many of us dream about leaving it all behind to garden in England, Italy, the South of France or even South America, but rarely do we take action to make it happen. Some of that may be because, while we love to dream, we often love the comforts and realities of the familiar even more. To paraphrase Hamlet, we prefer to bear our current situation and the world of the known, versus to inhabit some world we know not of, let alone the plant diseases that it may contain. Dreams of olive orchards and rice fields capture my imagination, but hay-scented ferns, New England asters, and apple trees feed my soul.
As I hurry to finish raking the fallen leaves back into my borders and beds before the first snow so they may break down and enrich my soil over the winter, I find some comfort in knowing the soil I work with. Its balanced structure of clay, sand, and silt allows seeds to germinate easily and to mature into plants that come into their own in the cool Berkshire summers. I hope, in listening to Clark, I will not merely envy the idea of a life in rural Italy but find a newfound appreciation for the familiar soil of Ashley Falls, as he shares stories of the difficulties of growing plants in the clay soil of his region of Italy—a place perhaps better suited to life as a potter than a gardener. And when it comes to the bounty of his garden, I can take comfort in knowing the squash, beans, peppers, tomatoes and corn he works so hard to grow would not be in his garden had colonists not come to America and brought these horticultural gifts back to Europe. (And that they all grow so easily for me here, in the land from whence they came).
It is easy for us to be envious of others, and we live in an acquisitive time where clinging to things often seems to be the endgame. However, I am hoping that in hearing the story of someone who has left the new world behind for what would be a new world to him—the world of the ancient Greeks and cultures that inform our own ideas and values in turn— that I will end the day after the day of thanks, thankful for what lies before me. I can also value the opportunities that exist should I decide to step beyond the familiar world which I have come to cherish as home, and most importantly, the freedom I have been given to choose between the two.
Being grateful for where I am does not mean I will not share in the seeds Clark is offering at the end of his talk. Some of these seeds may be sown in my garden; others will sit on my nightstand to be planted in my dreams of a life lived elsewhere, dreams from which I will awaken each morning in a place that will always be at once familiar and magical. And both those dreams and the world in which we wake comprise the universe of a gardener.
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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.
