If I were to write a song about “a few of my favorite things,” winter would not be on the list. A somewhat strong sentiment for sure, but one that comes to me this wintry morning as I rush up the walk with day’s mail. In the spring and summer, it often takes me hours to finish the journey to the front door, but then –yes, then-there is the garden. All kinds of wonderful distractions line the path, and it takes every bit of discipline to get to the porch. But now, on this wintry day, I hurry, not caring to linger. I pass my embracing frog-couple, dressed in snowy white. Although I know they will soon be basking in sunshine again, I cannot bear to dwell on their present misfortune.
Enveloping myself in a blanket before a roaring fire, I turn my attentions to the mail on my lap. Warmth and pleasure rush through my cold veins, as I toss aside bills and other extraneous material. There before me, like magical icons of gratification, lie new catalogs filled with pages of seeds, bulbs, blossoms, fertilizers, soil, shovels…a veritable banquet to an undernourished gardener! I sit back, relaxed now by the opportunity to participate in my garden-albeit from inside a blanket.
The sun shines from these pages, and instead of snow falling, I’m sure that I hear the beginnings of spring rain. The fresh aromas of mint and thyme are now wafting through the air, as my closing eyes signal the beginnings of a spring dream.
Raucous blue jays squawk in the evergreens. Sunflowers display faces that beckon the hungry. A monarch circles a buddleia’s purple blooms, and hummingbird is working the red flowers of a trumpet vine. In the leaves of an African daisy, a crab spider dines on a fritillary butterfly, while a praying mantis, steel-trap forelegs folded in reverence, awaits unsuspecting prey. Two damselflies rendezvous over the pond. Red-winged blackbird chicks proclaim their hunger. Dragonflies, frogs, toads, and crickets mate, burrow, and eat.
The grassy area under my birch tree is well suited for observing the fascinating events before me. It’s a well-worn patch of grass but one that allows me a front-row line of vision. The characters onstage at this unique theater come and go; conversations and dialogue change according to the seasons. I am the grateful audience, honored to have this eclectic yet connected meeting place right in my front yard.
A WONDERLAND AT HOME
The daily drama that occurs here is not mere happenstance. I have appointed myself both set director and stagehand, planting and watering with the hopes of creating just such a grand production. Being a nature photographer, I spend most my days outdoors, traveling in the grandeur of the natural world. But my sweetest days are those spent in my garden, like Alice in a wonderland realm. Here, I am spellbound. My garden contains many varieties of plants, vegetables, and herbs. There are trees and shrubs for shelter and food. Water is provided to satisfy thirst and promote growth. Although visually pleasing, the garden does not have “perfect” complementary color combinations, nor does it contain the qualities necessary for inclusion in garden tours, such as fancy arboretums or bronze statues. Along the edges of the paths, I have planted Johnny-jump-ups, pansies, and alyssum. Tulips, daffodils, and nasturtium flower in spring, and summer features lilies, lupine, cosmos, delphinium and daisies. Herbs are scattered hither and yon-dill under the crab apple, and thyme and mint in whichever space will have them. In fact, the garden beds are somewhat haphazard and probably disconcerting to more fastidious gardeners. The flowers and shrubs were purchased from catalogs or shared by other gardeners in the form of sprigs or bulbs.
In this garden, visitors will not find rare species lurking behind protective fences. What I do have are small miracles that coexist in wonderful unison. Whenever I peek through the jungles of grasses, I am gifted with vignettes of life, death, sex, and love-a full repertoire of emotion and activity.
It is obvious by now that my garden is not a formal place and may even be labeled “wild” in a sense. I pull weeds, although not very obsessively. I spray, although my bottle is filled with a mixture of garlic, crushed hot peppers, liquid detergent, and water. The garden is protected by a process known as Integrated Pest Management. IPM uses crop rotation, parasites, predators, and disease organisms instead of insecticides to maintain harmony and balance. I personally don’t mind a lettuce leaf with a hole in it. I know pesticides weren’t used, and the lettuce seems all the more delectable.
Seeds are sown and nourished, but most of the growth germinates through good fortune and muse. I delight in my lawn, which is left rather long-almost meadowlike. Mornings bring me moths and grasshoppers clinging to the long, slender blades of grass. Daisies and clover provide welcome components to the beautiful carpet. I like it this way and find it relaxing. It reminds me of other wild, untamed places where bulldozers, golf greens, and shopping centers have not encroached.
I yearn to connect with this complex web of interacting players. I know that the route to relating is not only through entomology or learning the Linnaean binomial system. Biology 101 has been part of my education, and I have read wonderful books. These tools are useful stepping-stones that enable me to gain insight into the lives of creatures and their magical worlds. They help me to see more, not only to look more. I go into the world of nature with curiosity and the eyes of a child, not yet encumbered with precepts. Through familiarity and encounter, I begin to comprehend.
A DELICATE INTRUSION
One of my favorite times to photograph is in the special light of dawn. Dew hangs luxuriously from leaves, and there is a serenity particular to these early morning hours. Many of the little creatures are cold-blooded and do not move quickly in cool air. They are thus cooperative subjects for my camera. I watch an early rising beetle travel up one of the hills of this liliputian world and discover a katydid almost perfectly camouflaged on a green leaf. A cecropia moth with great fanlike feelers is silently hanging from a branch, probably still tired from its night-flying adventures. Yellow crab spiders, wet with morning dampness, lurk on daisies and cosmos. In neat, mummy-like wrappings of silk, a grasshopper hangs in a bejeweled web. An argiope spider stands guard over its prey.
I feel privileged to be present at this special place on earth, and somehow I think the plants and critters sense this. One very early morning, coffee still warm in my hands, I amble out to the garden. A praying mantis is showing off, hanging upside down from a sunflower head. It seems proud to be displaying its talents and does not retreat as I approach. Set in a pointed, inquisitive face, multifaceted eyes meet mine. I put my coffee cup down and go inside for my gear. The mantis doesn’t seem to mind the intrusion of my tripod and camera. I photograph this remarkable creature and thank it for the honor.
On an Indian summer day, I am warmed by the flush of the morning sun on my cheek and the delicate way the butterflies ride the wind currents above my garden. They are “like dream flowers,” Miriam Rothschild has said, “childhood dreams-which have broken loose from their stalks and escaped into the sunshine.” To attract them to my little community, I have planted such nectar-bearing plants as honeysuckle, buddleia, hollyhock, nasturtium, and lupine. Growing wild in the field beside me are thistle, Queen Anne’s lace, joe-pye weed, and milkweed. I watch two monarchs perched on a coneflower. Their uncoiled proboscises siphon liquid nourishment. Perhaps they are gathering the strength they will need for migration. Will they be wintering the Everglades, the cypress swamps of Louisiana, in California or Mexico? I tell them that I will miss them and wish them a safe journey.
A male juvenile red-bellied woodpecker stops on the branch overhead. Looking disheveled and rather unsure of what to do next, he reminds me of other adolescents I have known. Suspended somewhere between chick and adult, he is out in the world searching for his place. He casts a furtive glance toward the monarch butterfly but remains on his perch. Perhaps he has already experienced the bitter taste of a monarch’s blood and, being wiser through experience, opts for the seeds in the feeder. The monarch knows that nature has provided this effective defense mechanism and doesn’t even look up.
INSECTS ABOUND
Like Gulliver in Lilliput, I watch the miniature world of insects. Ladybugs, clad in orange and black, are ferociously devouring aphid clusters. Ants trail by, marching earnestly. Under a lupine, an eight-legged daddy longlegs is preening in its characteristic fastidious fashion, threading one leg after another through its mouth. Upon noticing me, it pumps its oval body up and down, using long, jointed legs as levers. I recognize this is likely stress behavior due to my intrusion and reluctantly retreat.
A dozen or so honeybees crowd the nodding hollyhocks. I note their prowess as they dart sidewise, forward, and backward without seeming effort. On the same pink-petaled landing strip, a robber fly swoops down with hawk-like precision, successfully capturing a baby cricket. Under the hollyhocks squirm earthworms. These garden helpers are not just lolling in the shade but are busy neutralizing and recycling the soil. Their castings contain five times the nitrate, seven times the phosphorus, three times the exchangeable magnesium, eleven times the potash, and one and a half times the calcium found in the best topsoil in the United States. I thank them for their labors.
Six-legged creatures of ancient lineage are everywhere. I take a minute to marvel at the insects’ survival. They lived two hundred million years before humans appeared on the planet. They are still here, in abundance. They have been flexible, altering their habits as environments have changed. But here they are as they were millions of years ago, representing their fossil ancestors.
Over at the pond, a nymph is creeping out of the water. Its folded wings begin to expand. Shades of lavender and crimson glow in intensity. As blood is pumped into the body, its wings begin to harden. An hour goes by, but the reward for my patience is the flight of a glistening, golden dragonfly. As it departs into the sunshine, I am reminded of Tennyson’s description of these wonderful creatures, and I bid this “living flash of light” farewell. This morning I have captured the emergence of this luminous being on film. I will treasure the image all the more, for having witnessed the drama of its birth.
A wasp flies near. I try to forget its hypodermic sting. I focus on its participation in the scheme of things and on its successful work at controlling insects. Like human relationships that we may choose to enter, some in nature are a little more difficult.
The population of my garden rises and falls according to the season. This diverse community, with its varieties of feeding habits, boast carnivores, insectivores, herbivores, omnivores, and detrivores. Imagine fishermen, scavengers, hunters, trappers, farmers, and miners all live in this one small place!
GARDEN AS A MICROCOSM
Even during travel, I carry the wisdom of this secret world with me. The chaos of everyday living may be all around, but I can move to that miniature nature reserve where I have experienced the sacredness of life. In remembering, I am provided with what Henry Thoreau called “the tonic of wildness.” To retrieve balance, I drink from that tonic, and borrow the ancient ceremonial words “all my relatives” to call in wind, water, sun, sky, and animals. It is as they say. To feel well is to “be at home” with all relations. The flowers and creatures greet me when once again I rejoin my garden. I have missed them and hope that, in some small way, they are pleased with my homecoming.
In gardening, as in life, balance between intelligence and intuition is a useful characteristic. Many members of our culture want us to think in logical and objective terms. I don’t always bring those attributes to my relationships in nature. I love to chatter with my garden neighbors, and sometimes I hear their voices in response. I’m confident that we all benefit from the rapport.
Garden paths and interwoven patterns of vines and tendrils reach out and connect to each other-like life’s byways and passages, I think. All of us, in whichever garden we find ourselves, experience loss and fulfillment, disappointments and dreams. The roles of audience and performer are interchangeable; we share a common thread and are inexplicably bound. Each of us carries scars and wounds from living in the world. We are all in search of means of survival and regeneration.
By studying one representative ecosystem created in my own little garden, I learn bout the larger principles of life. If we as a society can abandon anthropocentric views that separate us from the larger community, we could develop a common ecological conscience. Possessing accountability toward nature commits us to principles of humility and benevolence.
A cool breeze blows through the corn plants, and I stir in my blanket. I can still see the magic of fireflies and hear the rhythmic song of male crickets. It is a melancholy sound, for I realize that my summer stock theater will soon be ending its run. The embers in the fireplace crackle and pop=an alarm wakening me to all that remains to be done.
The dream will soon be a reality. In spring, a multitude of new faces will be inhabiting the worlds that we create as gardeners. This wintry morning is offering the gift of time. Planning an environment takes much preparation. I turn the pages of the catalogs and begin to make careful notes.
I must be patient for the soil to again nurture creation and new miracles. I will be there, waiting on my patch of grass for the rebirth.
