Self-Organizing Man

On Saturday I purchased several native wildflowers, grasses and one vine for my backyard.

Our backyard contains a sugar maple with many surface roots, which dry out the soil.  Nothing currently grows there.

This year, for some reason, all the gardens at our suburban home have ignited my passions.  I’ve transplanted four lilies, a holly bush, and three rose bushes, all needing more sun; purchased, with the divine Ms. H., two hostas, six Asian lilies, a wines and roses bush, marigold and pansies for the annual boxes and basil, cilantro, thyme, dill and rosemary for the herb boxes; received some free ground cover from our neighbor, a master gardener in her own right.

I have no idea why this year I’ve decided to tend our gardens.  (I bought soaker hoses, too, and now find garden tchotchkes inflame my passions.  What I once described as "shit on a stick" has now become fun, whimsical (neither an adjective I liked nor one ever used to describe me!) elements to add to the garden.

I’ve lived at this house since January 2003.  Yet this year I have awakened at 7 am on Saturdays to dead head roses, water the beds, mulch, weed and just engage in the garden slendor.

Mr. Jack, my cat, joins me outside every morning, and prances along the stone wall on the back garden. 

About three weeks ago he discovered the catmint plant.  Nowadays he crawls through the posts of the white picket fence, saunters over to the catmint, rolls around in it and gets really high.  Then he lies on his back on the hot concrete and meows up to the blue skies.

Saturday he encountered his first butterfly.  (All his previous days he has lived indoors.  Starting out in a small studio apartment in Chicago, we’ve both moved up to a three bedroom, fully furnished basement, ranch house [thanks Ms. H.!!])

The butterfly enchanted him like no human made toy I’ve ever seen.  He moved between the cool grass under the sugar maple, and the dry hot grass in front of the concrete patio, waiting for the arrival of the next white butterfly.  Two butterflies rewarded his efforts, flew overhead, causing him to leap into the air and bat furiously at the illusive speck of white fluttering over his head.

I felt priviledged to see him this way, as the divine Ms. H. and I painted four trellises I finished on Sunday for the virgin’s bower clematis I bought on Saturday.  A beautiful, fast growing, native vine, the clematis will eventually hide the rusted hurricane fence separating us from our neighbors. 

This morning I found new growth on all four plants.

I also checked the health of the new wildflowers and grasses I planted under the sugar maple.  The wild columbine, heart leaf astor, big leaf astor and woodland sunflower also had new growth.

The new growth amazes me.  Non-native, or naturalized plants (those arriving to my state after 1700) conceptualize my thinking such that I do not know if I believe the claims of the native plants experts from whom I bought the flowers.  They told me the woodland flowers and grasses I bought for the dry, shady conditions under the maple tree do not require water.

How can this be, I think?  All plants need mulch and constant water and weeding. 

But the native plants grow naturally in the very conditions existing in my backyard.  The roots systems of some of the flowers grow as deep as fifteen feet, allowing them to thrive in dry soil.

So I struggle to not impose my will on these flowers, grasses and vines.  I struggle to let go and let these plants relax into the soil and follow their native path to glory. 

Meanwhile I arise in the morning, exit the house with Mr. Jack, and explore the new growth with impatience and relaxation, amazement and awe.

Who knew the power of native plants and suburban gardens to qwell my tired, urban cynicism and awaken a sense of wonder?

Gratitude fills my heart, for Ms. H., for opening up her heart and home to me and Mr. Jack for always being himself and for the flowers and grasses and vines for teaching me about synergy and simplicity.