Overflowing, abundant, voluptuous–the garden grows. My neighbor’s rose made me add voluptuous. I have no roses in my garden, but in such close quarters, it appears I’ve borrowed one. Yes, voluptuously it droops, limply, wet with rain.
Memory, I say.
For me, the idea of a garden comes from early memories. Over time, cultural and historical overlays may influence garden preferences, but my memories of early childhood have always seemed to trump “learned” things.
The big picture, the foam of green. In a couple of weeks the carpet of perennials will be higher and show much more definition and interest.
The first weeks of May. Cool air, sweet scent of the weedy Russian olive, the chatter of bird’s making their high pitched insect sounds so strange the tree frogs at night sound more like birds, the golden lace of just emerging foliage glowing in the golden afternoon, the dark slowly coming on. Time to stop after a long day of planting. The feeling of the moment is enough to overlook parts of the garden still undone, that still exist only in my mind. The bank of Hydrangea arborescens I had planned for that hillside, the Darmera tubers that won’t emerge for another two or three weeks, maybe not at all this season. It’s all an intermingling, an effect, an atmosphere, a mood, detail merging into the whole, unfinished parts into general process, as I move from one part of the garden to another.
This garden is more for viewing than sitting in. After a year with it, I’ve realized I see it much more from inside than outside. It’s like looking into a lighted aquarium.
It’s the fourth wall of the living room, where we spend most of our “city” time, and it’s a constant source of entertainment and pleasure. Another room, but a room outside. Its exposure to neighboring houses may encourage this rather passive garden enjoyment. I speculate we’ll spend much more time outside when the four-square framework of Sunburst honey locusts grows into a high, lacy canopy, lending a sense of open privacy we lack now.
Too much prospect, too little refuge.
As I look at these photos, I’m amazed how different the space appears encased in the frame of this image. The garden looks crowded reduced to a six-inch-wide photo; in reality it doesn’t seem crowded at all. Perhaps this has something to do with the foreshortening of the camera lens, the flattening of three-dimensional space?
Looking toward the house wall with its simple geometric forms and straight lines, some sense of proportion and three-dimensionality is restored, even in a two-dimensional photo.
I don’t mean to say I never go outside. I go out for a few minutes in the morning, usually just before running out of the house to go to work, and I do it again when I get home. Just a short visit to do whatever it is gardeners do in such “in between” moments. Lately I’ve been cutting last year’s grasses and weeding.
There are more and more things to see as spring advances …
… Astilboides tabularis …
… Mukdenia rossii …
… Hydrangea petiolaris climbing the wall and about to blossom …
… Hydrangea quercifolia ‘Snowflake’, the amazing double-flowered form, which probably will grow much too large for this garden …
… a form of low honeysuckle and a pretty clambering ground cover whose name I forget …
… Sedum angelina, Lysimachia nummularia ‘Aurea’, and Ajuga ‘Dark Scallop’ blooming …
The bare soil needs a low-level ground cover. It will become invisible when the plants grow to size, but a low carpet of Mazus reptans, ajugas, and other diminuitive spreaders will be a good thing, both for visual appeal and to keep down weeds.
“Garden is a verb,” he said to me.
Indeed. A garden is only finished when the gardener dies, or so the saying goes. Mine seems to be less finished with every passing day. Too many projects started over the winter, too much planting to be done.
You can see above the new reflecting pool area surrounded by a low berm for planting. The berm covers a prominent path I’ve long wanted to erase from the garden. It resembles a lava flow, and suggests the flow of water across the garden in heavy rain, a wash of soil waiting for nature (or a gardener) to populate it with plants. (This “flow” metaphor is an underlying design motif of this garden.)
The area still looks a mess but time has come to plant and deal with finish details. Will it look grown in by the June 29 garden tour deadline? I think so, at least enough to show the process of this garden. Once the weather warms, the grasses and perennials will grow quickly. What can’t happen for several years is complexity, the interweaving of mixed growth that only comes from self seeding, natural spreading of perennials, and yet-to-be-conceived human interventions.
I’ll continue to use mixed planting (methodically described in the new book by Noel Kingsbury and Piet Oudolf, Planting: a New Perspective), but my garden presents difficult constraints–that being heavy, compacted clay. Designing a planting for this garden is hit or miss. I certainly can’t start with a design on paper that considers only physical appearance and characteristics of the plants over time. I’m no Oudolf and, if I were, it wouldn’t do much good. Of the venue of extraordinary plants I know thanks to these two, many just can’t grow here. (My garden offers a rapid death to any Echinacea, as one example.) Finding the plants that will grow takes trial, experimentation. Oh, I can follow some basic principles–use moisture-loving plants, avoid those that require “well drained” soil, favor those with long tap roots, not fibrous root systems, favor vigorous, competitive plants that spread rapidly–but only success over several years can prove a plant’s ability to merely survive, or thrive, here.
Now I’m at the planting stage and realizing just to what extent garden is a verb.
To help get a more finished look quickly, I’m using large plants when I can get them: Rudbeckia maxima (five) in a group, several new and recycled Miscanthus, Panicums, two amazingly mature Baptisias I found at Paxson Hill Farm, and Pycnantheum muticum, which may eventually function as a matrix plant. I may even try to transplant some Inula racemosa seedlings for an immediate “mature” effect. Once the large plants are in, I have a mixture of other plants chosen for the dryer soil of the berm–20 Baptisia lactea, 10 Liatris ligustylis, several Angelica gigas, and a number of things to seed in: Prunella grandifolia as a ground cover, Bronze fennel, Verbena bonariensis, of course.
The frogs have even taken up residence in the new pool.
The rough grassy area in the foreground of the pool is being planted with Miscanthus, which copes very well with the wet and the compacted soil, and will be a ground cover. I’ll scatter various Sanguisorbas among the Miscanthus mounds, and other things as I find what can thrive in this very damaged area (lots of tromping on the muddy clay last winter).
In addition to this new reflecting pool and planting berm on the east end of the house, we also added two stone-walled planting areas in the slowing evolving woodland garden on the west end.
Here is the view up the path to the western woodland area.
Lots of work left to do here. I moved Rodgersia to these elevated beds and planted Darmera peltata (roots, not plants), so it may be a while before the large foliage has impact.
This is a very wet area; the small scattered stepping stones don’t work, visually or practically. I can’t afford real stone, so I’m searching for alternatives.
The surrounding area I’m trying to turn into a shady meadow. It’s about half covered with Golden ragwort (Senecio aureus), as well as scattered ferns, Siberian irises, various carex and shade tolerent grasses, Sweet woodruff (Galium odoratum) and Pulmonaria.
I’ve struggled with this wet, root infested end of the garden for years. The final solution may be a sea of Petasites.
Success. Failure. Chance. Change.
Garden is a verb.