I’m in garden mode. Tucking egg cartons with seedlings on high windowsills to get them sun and keep them from curious Myrtle. Walking to the garden center, buying only as much as I can carry home. Cleaning up dead leaves and discovering green beneath the decay.
Every year I say, “This is going to be the best year ever for the garden” and the cool thing about gardening is that is usually true. The work I put in each year means, bit by bit, the improvements add up over time.
I go out and map each bed. Note what made it through the winter and what may not be coming back. Last year I tried my luck with an echinacea and butterfly weed, both of which keep the pollinators happy. Both of which came back this year. The dicentra I’d all but declared dead also returned. Perhaps Springsteen was right—“Maybe everything that dies someday comes back”—with the caveat that in its first returning year the dicentra may not flower. (Remember the gardener’s adage I shared earlier this year—sleep, creep, leap?) Weirdly, the dusty miller I picked up at a plant sale two years ago has stuck around. Given the increasingly mild winters, it’s not totally surprising that this plant—which I’d previously grown as an annual—is now wintering and returning the following spring. Science is real and real horrifying.
When I moved to Ithaca twelve years ago, the first apartment Dave and I lived in had a lofted storage space above the kitchen. The stairs were steep and we ended up using it as a place for the cat box, storage, and an extra writing desk—I believe Dave’s from Syracuse—which nestled perfectly in a small nook between two windows. I’d take my journal and laptop up there, glance out the windows during writing sessions. In warmer weather, one of our neighbors would go outside every day and sweep the sidewalk. That’s just what he did. I don’t think we ever exchanged greetings or spoke. The apartment didn’t have a yard or chill spot to spend time outside. Dave and I joked about it then, how this guy was really into sweeping the sidewalk. But now I’m like, Makes sense. The intention and care in this gesture made a small difference. Our neighbor cared enough to do that, unlike the two knuckleheads next door.
I’ve noticed two natures competing—the desire to be outside, working in the yard and watching bees get busy while they fly (impressive!) and the impulse to document. On the one hand, I enjoy building an archive and comparing the space now to how it looked years ago. It’s rewarding seeing how far it’s come. And sharing the greatest hits is a virtual version of dividing irises and taking a bag of tubers to a coworker. At times though, I realize I’m just doing more of the same thing I’m trying to get away from—wasn’t that why I went outside?
It’s hard to disconnect, tap out fully from the hustle and the scroll. The same as it’s hard not to trace parallels between writing and gardening, how the latter just feels like another way to exercise the same muscles: pay attention, make choices, see what’s before me in a new way to—hopefully—improve it. The idea that sometimes we have to scrap everything and start over.
The thing about starting over though—in gardening and writing—is I don’t think we’re ever truly totally starting from scratch. We’re always building off some knowledge, even if it’s the knowledge of failures and botched attempts. Even when I’m staring at three starter cells of moldy alyssum (RIP) I’m building off the knowledge that I should have sown directly across the soil—and fortunately I’d set some alyssum seeds aside, knowing that the starter cells were an experiment.
✨Here are some vittles to accompany your springtime experiments, whether they find you in a garden or at the desk✨
🕯️The Chandelier — Clarice Lispector
This novel and Água Viva remain deadlocked in a tie as my favorite of Lispector’s works. This is the story of Virginia, who grows up in a crumbly old countryside mansion with her brother, Daniel, eventually following Virginia to the city. An unexpected hit for a garden edit because this is a deeply cerebral book. Yet the interiority and dense prose have the feel of a lush, intentionally overgrown garden.
💐The Wild Iris — Louise Glück
A favorite if you ever find yourself talking to the flowers in your yard and wondering what they may say back. These are poems about life, death, cycles, transformations, and seasons. They embody dialogs between plants and humans, humans and the spiritual.
🌱Mother Earth’s Plantasia — Mort Garson
You know the rumor that singing to your plants will improve their growth? Here’s an electronic album from the 70s for your plants to enjoy. And it’s okay if you like it too. Synthesizer with mild vaporwave vibes.
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Gina, I love the way you write about nature. It makes me look at my own yard with renewed fondness.