Sometimes spring comes on quickly, sometimes incrementally, and sometimes it teases us by showing us glimpses of what is to come among days of hard frosts and cold weather. As gardeners, we like to talk and fret about the weather, but we also celebrate each nice spring day with an optimism that keeps us out in our gardens, working late into the evening. Often, we forget that the days have lengthened; the late-setting sun leads us astray, and we find ourselves eating dinner well after dusk.
I love these days and am reminded each year of the joys of being a gardener, as if each spring were my first. Pulling back leaves to find the emerging buds of a meadow rue or the bright green shoots of Canadian ginger as it emerges from a winter of rest excites me. In a world that seems to be in constant flux, with news of subway attacks and crimes against humanity, there is comfort in watching the spring season unfold, reminding us that some processes move forward despite the worst of human behavior. Even as I write this, I know we are impacting the climate with our actions with consequences for nature as well, but somehow in the spring I am hopeful that we can set things right. If only we could approach the world the way we approach our gardens, by simply taking on the next right action, and then moving forward.
This week, as I cut back ornamental grasses (leaving the lower 14 inches or so of last year’s blades in place to harbor overwintering insects), I am momentarily taken away from the news of Ukraine and oil supply issues. I may not be sheltering refugees, but I am happy to provide habitat in the leafy duff of my garden for local pollinators and beneficial insects.
In this moment, I look more closely at the world around me. Hellebores push forth their flowers and their leafy stalks, basking in the sun before the trees overhead leaf out to give them shade from the summer’s heat. In such moments, I find hope. As I examine the blue stripes that run down the white petals of Scilla tubergeniana with what seems like military precision, I do not see this as representing the war overseas, but as a signal that the natural world seeks order and equilibrium. Despite two years of pandemics and lockdowns, the reemergence of plants and a few bees provides me with some comfort and a more positive outlook on the world around us.
While this moment is a great time to manage aggressive plants and weeds in the garden to keep them at bay, I do not go about the task of eradicating goutweed and mugwort in a frenzy, but at a measured pace—taking it on as one of many tasks to be performed in the spring to stay ahead of garden issues. Something about this season allows me to do this work without anxiety or frustration but with the simple idea that what I accomplish today will benefit me and my garden in the months ahead.
I hope I can maintain this frame of mind, not only as I approach my work in the garden, but as I listen to the evening news and set a course of action for what I can do to help the world around me, whether by donating money to help refugees or working to combat climate change. This feeling may, in fact, be the very reason that I garden—to feel in the world and part of it, without being overwhelmed by what may come and what is out of my control.
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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.
