Time of Soft Trees

Post 30

 

Now is the time of soft trees, 

the beginning, when hints of pink, green and yellow tint the taupes and blues of winter.

So, below, a poem about life. Very short. Very slight. 
And fit for an Equinox, - at least half bright.

Tilth


Deep in the underhush 
   Dig low, pile high;
Warm as the underbrush
   Deep as the sky

    

Warm as the underbrush,

   Grasses and sedge,

Berries and daisies

   Fringe a low ledge.

                                                                                

                                                                                   

A stream at the edge

Moves through the dew,

The deeper the life

The stronger the clue.

                                                                                                                                                             

 

Happy Spring

Wissahickon Style IV, Lack of Pretension

Post 26

A bad back has increased my grouchiness while decreasing my inspiration. Hence my not keeping up with weekly posts, So I'm going to go for an easy topic: lack of pretension, to keep things going. 

By lack of pretension -- I mean everything from having an undisguised television set (no, not media center, never media center,) in the living room to a sign for your garden written in chalk. For me, the best of Wissahickon style is not hoity-toity,  but scuffed-up white shoe.

Here are street number tiles embedded in a schist wall. They are old tiles, probably Mercer, cracked and riven, much like the rock and mortar they are set in. One of the clues to real style is that it has an unifying integrity. Pretension usually shows itself up as the slapping together of various items with nothing in common but their value as status tags. Hence the odd fact that style can seem to reflect a moral state.

Time as eventual destroyer of all things is never recognized by pretension. Old objects are only valued as consumer goods. The imprecations of time as such are usually erased by the up-to-date or, even more oddly, by other old items from whatever historical period is currently au courant.

A true unitive integrity of style may be as impossible to achieve as perfectly human integrity, but for any attempt at either, humility is needed. And humility means being in touch with our true humanity, the humus of our being, that we are mortal, fallible creatures at the mercy of time and tide.

Architecture that rears up against this truth is unlikely, in the long run, to enhance human flourishing. But architecture that helps us own up to our humanity softens the imprecations of time. It can then become a comforting presence, and, as an unifying style, set an example of how to get things right.

Thanksgiving

Post 16

Deerfield Village, MA

Now is the time for giving thanks. We are problem-solving, stimuli-hungry animals who lose track of the common and uncommon graces of our lives.

Somehow, for me, gardening slows down time. For after an hour or so of digging, smelling, placing, moving, something in me stills. Only then do I truly begin to feel, really feel, the sun massaging my shoulders or the fine texture of  grit on my fingers

It's easy to be so busy thinking/planning/solving that living, feeling unwanted, gets out of the way.

The word gratitude, comes from the Latin gratitudo and gratus. Which means thankful. It also means pleasing, as in pleasure...

Pleasure gets no respect. We suspect it because it can lead us astray. But it can also lead us right.

Part of adolescence is learning to extract pleasure from things we originally find repugnant. From booze to tobacco to movies without happy endings, we learn to overcome instinctive pleasure. How else can we be cool and grown-up? We learn to tolerate, even be proud of,  the deadening side effects of overiding our nature, and then wonder, years later, what's gone wrong.

Maturity, among so many other things, may be about shedding such roughshodding over pleasure.

Pleasure is easy.  It is everywhere. And much of it is innocent. It does not hurt you or anyone else. That is the pleasure to go for, to be grateful for.

According to the OED, the second meaning of gratitude is grace. Like the the grace of innocent pleasure, there for us when we want it.

So is the act of feeling pleasure, in an of itself, a type of gratitude? The answer seems both obvious and paradoxical.

The reason I've made a garden is because it gives me pleasure, a pleasure I learned about by experiencing other peoples' garden. I hope my garden passes on that pleasure. I hope this blog with its pictures does too. It is a way of saying thanks.

Wissahickon Style I, or the Humility of Corydalis lutea, the plant money can't buy

Post 15

Every place has its own feel. And the factors that go into this feel are too complex for rational analysis. No instrument can measure it; only human intuition is complex enough to process it

It's what the ancients called the Genius Loci, the intelligence of the place. If you garden in harmony with it, it will do the really hard work for you.

In Chestnut Hill/Mt. Airy/Germantown, with our Arts & Crafts Wissahickon Schist houses; acid, clayey soil; tall trees and the remnants of slate roofs and sidewalk, a distinctive style has spread without any trendy style guru laying down dictates, although a generous founding family has and does exert a benign influence.

Overall  it is a style that has evolved with the community through time. I love that, I love it and I love that folk-styles, of all sorts, can still exist in this product-driven ( fallen?) world.

Once this area was grand, where Philly's richest, (and those who strove to be its richest,) built. It was a shiny modern thing--a railroad suburb. Time has worn down the shine. Now it is home base for a combo of comfortable professionals, bohos, civil servants, middle and working class and the remains of a true American gentry, whose trust funds may not be what they once were,-- but whose taste is.

So often things are just a tad shabby. Items in the garden may look inherited, whether or not they are.You can always refer to wear as patina.

The Arts &  Crafts  influence (many of the houses were built 1880-1930,) comes in various substyles: Norman, Cotswold, Colonial, Queen Anne, William and Mary, Dutch, Carpenter Gothic and Italianate. Add to this some earlier houses, some Frank Loyd Wright-like numbers nestled into hillocks and brick rowhouse construction from Victorian times till post-WWII. None of these styles are pretentious. Some, if kept up gleamingly, may whisper wealth; none shout. One of the common factors to Wissahickon style is its mix of beauty with a comfortable lack of pretension.

"Homes built in the Wissahickon style of architecture are inspired by the vernacular architecture of France, England, and Colonial America ... They use native materials, such as Wissahickon schist, in their construction and native plants in their gardens...It’s very attractive, but it also makes sense ecologically,”  

Remark by historian David Contosta, from story in the Springfield Sun, Mar 24, 2011

When the houses have grown into the land, or the land has grown up around them,--and especially when its hard to tell which -- you've hit Wissahickon style paydirt. And in some corner or niche, you are likely to see a  humble, local weed/ flower. People who evaluate things by cost call it a weed, I call it an overlooked, undervalued treasure. Since it dislikes being potted up it usually spreads by seed, not sale. If you do not have any of this gem, yellow corydalis, just ask around. Chances are it modestly grows somewhere near you, peeking out of a crevice in a wall or from the underside of a step.

Its bluish, ferny, feathery foliage comes up early and leaves late. It blooms for months  in the spring and months in the fall; mid-summer it sulks and wishes it were north in a mountain glade. Each plant is short lived, but since it replaces itself so readily you are unlikely to notice this.  It is as good as a catmint or hardy geranium for underplanting larger, showier plants.

The nursery business has developed a slew of blue- and purple-flowered versions that are almost too lovely for words.  The bad news is that they are pretty finicky in our clay soil and high summer humidity. They are also expensive. I got a purple one, Blackberry Wine, to last for 3 years, but it never reseeded, which just did not seem right for a corydalis. There is a lovely, wispy biennial native form, Corydalis sempervirens, which has a pink and yellow flower and pines for mountain glades. There are also a host of yellow or white corydalis that the Brits grow as garden plants and which show up on sale from time to time. They are usually worth buying.
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How to Corydalis.  Yellow corydalis or Corydalis lutea, likes semi-shade best. It will take full sun in spring as long as some foliage emerges above to provide relief during the hottest months. It can take full shade but does not like being directly under a tree or within the dripline of a house since it needs some moisture. It has an affinity for stone, liking soil a bit more alkaline than ours usually is. So if you have a wall, path, stairway, court, alley, well or edging in schist or slate, that is a great spot for it. The roots or corms (its rootstock looks like geraniums',) often break off, so transplanting is best done with tiny seedlings, not mature plants. And those tiny seedlings, once they come up in spring, will be large and billowing by fall. In fact, one is still blooming in a wind sheltered part of my garden.

Furture like a Tree

Post 12


Cultivating The Cosmic Tree Hildegard of Bingen



Pastorius Park

"AS AN OLD MAN was planting a tree, three young men came along and began to make sport of him, saying: "It shows your foolishness to be planting a tree at your age. The tree cannot bear fruit for many years, while you must very soon die. What is the use of your wasting your time in providing pleasure to others to share long after you are dead?" The old man stopped in his labor and replied: Others before me provided for my happiness, and it is my duty to provide for those who shall come after me. As for life, who is sure of it for a day? " Aesop's Fables Copyright 1881 Translator: unknown

Laurel Ridge Foundation, Conn.

Since moving to our property my husband and I have planted 8 small trees: 2 Cherries on the hellstrip, a Crepe Myrtle and Pee-Gee Hydrangea (more a big shrub I'm pruning into a tree,) in front, a Southern Magnolia and a Smokebush( also pruned into a tree,) on the side and 2 Japanese Maples, one on the side and one in back. Because we are on a budget, all these trees have been bought small, one of the maples is only a foot high. These trees will be at their best long after we have sold the house.

But the best trees on the property are the two native Dogwoods that were there when we moved in.  In Dogwood season parts of Northwest Philly transform into a continuous Dogwood forest as property lines fade beneath an aboveground sea of pink and white.

Many people I know are uncomfortable with institutional religion. But if asked, they will mention that they know there is "something" there, something they can feel that runs through all creation. They are mistrustful of closed mindsets, power structures and claims to authority by, well, people who do not seem to make the best case for such authority. Many try out Eastern paths to enlightenment or turn to ecology, gardening, wilderness, food, art or intellectual and political inquiry and action as nurturing and sustaining goods.  Which they are in perspective. But beyond them is a common longing for something hinted at, something like the force that through the green fuse drives the flower (apologies Dylan Thomas.)  For that, I think of an unusual woman in a world where woman were close to nonentities, a Medieval nun, author, composer, healer , and, oh yeah, mystic: Hildegard of Bingen and a word she coined --Viriditas

" Viriditas-- Greeness, derived from the Latin...One of the key terms in Hildegard's writings and her view of the world. It signifies the life-force, freshness of life, constant vitality, or fecundity, and is also a metaphor for virtuous living and a spiritual existence." from The World of Hildegard of Bingen: her life, times, and visions By Heinrich Schipperges, John Cumming

No dry authoritarian, closed-system here. Hildegard is writing about the Life behind life.



Monhegan Island



The Deep Life which we instinctively feel is home.

Pastorius Park

It is not odd that almost every spiritual path features a tree: the Tree of Life, the Bohdi Tree, Yggdrasil, and more. There is something about a tree, its age, its size, its open-armed call and embrace, its greeness, its beauty, its fruitfulness, that makes us feel a sense of a Tree behind the tree: The Tree, Viriditas.

Tree Of Jesse, Chagall



"What is the use of living if not to strive for noble causes and to make this muddled world a better place for those who will live in it after we are gone?"- Winston Churchill

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How-to Tree: Mid-Late Fall, up through Thanksgiving, is the best time to plant a tree.

A good link on tree planting is here.  A list of recommended trees for our area  is posted by Fairmont Park. The Pennsylvania Horticultural Society has a lot of information on trees here.

Look around. What do you see that is thriving and looks good to you? Ask around to find out what it is. Young trees are not that expensive, especially if bought on sale. And they are a fine shout-out for the future, our sense of the life that is both within us and beyond us.

Monhegan Island

Tweedia or Baby, It's Cold Outside

Pastorius Park

Post 11

There is that nip in the air. It's getting cold, and it is only going to get colder. We need stuff to keep us warm, to warm up our cockles and numb fingers. We need thick, strong stuff like cosy Polartec, down or tweed, maybe an old plaid Harris Tweed,  in landscape-like colors so worn the fabric has mellowed to the touch. I love the one at right, a fall view with a bit of sky in it.

A bit of sky...a few autumns ago I grew a Tweedia. The vine was a slow starter, did not even bloom till late August but then...what a September through November. People on the street stopped in their tracks because Tweedia is not one of those almost blues of the garden.  It is not the blue lavender of hardy Geraniums, mountain Bluet or Baptisia, fetching and periwinkle as those flowers are. Tweedia is different.

Tweedia is true, crisp, autumn sky, knock-your-eyes-out blue (though older petals can turn a cobalt violet that only highlights the turquoise center burr.) Plus, its petals are fleshy, squishy thick. It is a fairy tale flower tough enough for the real world. People would ask what it was. I would tell them only to see their eyes grow even more incredulous. How could something so beautiful be so unknown? Its bloomed, soldiering on as its world grew colder and colder. It kept my heart warm that autumn. Even after a hard frost put an end to it, its extaordinary beauty kept an inner bit of my heart warm through a long winter.

Pastorius Park

It is implausible impossibles like this that sometimes get us through the rough bits. Call it finding your inner strength, turning to God, seeing through illusion, shifting frames or wrapping yourself up in that indestructible, warm tweed. All withstanding, when you face the cold that should not be, and face it with goodwill, sincerity and humility, it can be a blessing what answers back from within you.

Tweedia is a fairy tale flower in the real world.  
But, like a blessing, it may not make everything alright. Suffering remains suffering, and suffering does real damage in the real world. In the real world, we need more than just our own blessings. We also need each others', real world blessings as well, especially: compassion, forgiveness, merciful justice and moral action.

It is getting colder. Soon it will be Halloween. So Happy Halloween, All Saints and All Souls. May our youngest adorables dress up as goblins and prowl the twilight for candy, laughing at darkness, death and fear. And may we remember all who have loved us and gently made a way for us, all the real fairy-tale flowers in our lives, whose love, like a good stong tweed blanket, has been woven to keep us warm through the night.

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How-to Tweedia: Tweedia caeruleum (sometimes called Oxypetalum caeruleum,) is a short vine from southern Brazil that we can grow as an annual.  It is not usually sold potted up so you have to start it from seed, which can be purchased from SummerHill Seeds. The seeds need warmth, between 70 and 80 degrees to germinate, so think of using a heating pad under the tray. Since Tweedia is a milkweed you need hardly cover the seeds, which should germinate in a few weeks. When you plant it out make sure to put it in a hot, dryish spot; it hates wet. Place it where it is easy to see. The flowers, are small, though, as Spencer Tracy might say, choice.

And, in case you think my trope of Tweedia/Tweed outlandish, take thought of this. Tweedia was introduced to the West by James Tweedie, a Scot, who was head gardener at Edinburgh Botanical Garden till he chucked it all and bolted to Buenos Aires, where he kept a small store and went off on plant-hunting expeditions. It was during one of these that he discovered Tweedia and, though he never darkened Scotland's mire again, he did send some seeds back home.

Now, what do you think an old-fashioned, Brit head gardener would tend to wear? Look and you will see an answer.  And tell me what that jacket is made of? Polyester? Egads, no.

And as for a wonderful wool blanket to pass on to later generations, look here at: Swans Island Blankets

Hostas and the Funkia of Scenic Decay

Post 10


It is easy, but unproductive, to imagine the garden as an idyllic Eden beyond time's throes.  There is no garden without time. Gardens are made of time

How I wish I had taken pictures a few winters ago when a heavy frost hit the uncut-back garden. A pale hosta, which had remained in leaf, wilted overnight, its fronds decayed into ghost leaves. The limp leaves, which fell away from their roots to splay out in a circle, had gone greyish white.  Unhappy at the time, I'd gathered them up and hung them from the bishop's hooks behind the Buddha. For a day or two they dangled there, tokens of decay, translucent, beautiful and properly sad.

In my carpool this week, I told a colleague how I like to let some plants visibly decay, while removing others--it all depending on how attractive the decay is. Since she is a new gardener, she asked me when to cut back her plants, most especially her hosta. It made me remember the ghost leaves, and note how a popular 19th century plant like hosta, once called funkia, remains perpetually in style. Every year there are new varieties while the old ones remain ubiquitous. Everyone, it seems, has some funk.
  


What other factors, I wondered, can make for good garden funk, a bit of scenic decay?

A surge of fresh roses blooming beneath a turning tree.

A scattering of fallen rose petals on a stone staircase.

                                 

"You love the roses - so do I.  I wish the sky would rain down roses, as they rain from off the shaken bush.  Why will it not? Then all the valley would be pink and white And soft to tread on.  They would fall as light as feathers, smelling sweet; and it would belike sleeping and like waking, all at once!"  -  George Eliot, Roses 

The froth of spent flowerheads nuzzled by a strand of Kiss-Me-Over-The-Garden-Gate

Fading flower of Oak Hydrangea against turning leaves and an Autumn Joy sedum blooming in a cute thrift-store vase .



Or how about the sight of zinnias with new blooms, mature blooms, and old blooms all in one gaze?





Pastorius Park

 In our culture such a huge amount of resources: time, money and effort, is spent erasing time. And to what end? To deny that in the long run there is only one end for mortal creatures?  One cosmetic company is now developing a pill to keep your hair from turning grey. Only drawback--you have to take it for at least 10 years before your hair starts turning, and then, for how many years after? What's next, some soil additive to keep tree leaves from turning color and falling in autumn? To erase time erases life, erases change, erases us.
.

Pastorius Park

My perennial question behind this blog -- how does gardening change the gardener? --has perhaps one answer. Gardening embeds us in time. Most of our common culture does the opposite--it disembodies us into spectators while erasing time. By gardening we partner and co-operate with time.


Hence we learn through our bodies' labors that sometimes it is better and more graceful to accede to time's reality. To trust to something beyond our self-gratifying egos.  And so to let the leaves, all the leaves, fall where they may.

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How-to Hosta:  Hostas are originally native to China.  From there they were brought to Japan and Korea, and then, from there, in the mid-19th-century, to the Western world. Older versions make great groundcovers for shade and semi-shade. They come in all sizes, from smaller than an unabridged dictionary to bigger than a multi-cushioned sofa, but most end up at about 3 X 3. They also come in all shades and varigations of green, white, chartreuse and a waxy blue-green.  Some of the newer varities can take sun: most others will get leaf burn. They love our local clayey soil, sending down deep roots to deal with dryish shade. To make more plants just divide in spring or fall; small plants will fill in quickly. Be sure to keep watered for a few weeks after transplanting. Hosta are tough, adapatable, low care plants. So --  Enjoy your funk ( just, as they say, don' impose it on others.)