“My garden is my most beautiful masterpiece.” –Claude Monet, speaking of his garden at Giverny in France
SPRING is here and the earth beckons. The rains came this year, sometimes with the intensity of a freight train, sometimes rain so fine and gentle, it feels like a caress on your face, a silent benediction from the heavens. Either way, we got a really good dousing. Thank God for this tender mercy.
Spring is a time of favor. The gardener at heart tunes out all dire predictions of doom and gloom we get in spades from our immediate environment or from nasty agenda-driven mass media. So cut the cable. Turn off the remote or SIMPLY UNPLUG. You might be surprised at the positive effects of reclaiming your life back from social media.
The realist in us thinks there is reason to be anxious with just about everything under the sun. But the true gardener at heart remains unfazed. Cool, calm and collected, he chooses to live in that rare state of grace called equanimity.
It must come from the zen-like peace one gets when one gardens, even if it is simply tending a single potted plant on an office desk. Doing what must be done in the garden is his small way of keeping the delicate balance of nature in his own sphere of influence.
In many ways, gardening is like praying. It keeps fears and anxieties at bay and keeps one centered in the belief that all things in the cosmos work together for good.
I was and still am a reluctant gardener. I was thrust into it by circumstances since I have a thing about not wanting anything dying on my shift. I had to seek books and advice despite the frenetic schedule of a workaday world as I multitasked my way through the day. Nothing I did seemed right at the time. I tended to over water not knowing about the dangers of root rot.
My track record at growing things was dismal, yet I have often wondered what it would be like to watch something grow. I marveled at my mother’s green thumb. She can stick a seemingly lifeless stump at a clump of earth and grow a new beautiful plant nearly every time.
I wasn’t one to give up easily though. Tenaciously, doggedly I hung on to an image of me as a confident gardener. My education on the art and science of growing things had begun. I took baby steps and stumbled countless times. I still do.
I became quieter within as I began to observe and seek to understand the process of growth, the seasons and the cycle of life. I read voraciously volumes upon volumes about plants and watched public television that featured gardening. Nurseries and gardens have become my favorite haunts where I could ask those who knew better. I boned up on my rusty, halting Spanish quizzing the gardener as best I could. Finally, I slammed on the brakes fearing I had become boringly, compulsively obsessive. But I found that unless I got down on the ground myself, nothing happened.
I have discovered gardening to be a quiet, solitary pursuit somewhat fit for hermits and loners — unglamorous, unexciting, backbreaking, time consuming, manual, icky, down in the dirt labor that was certainly not meant for immediate gratification.
So, why do it at all? I don’t really know. Must be borderline idiocy. Of course, I speak only for myself. For one thing, it teaches you the patience of Job and the virtue of humility. I have failed more than succeeded and am still working on it. But as time passed, I have been encouraged by modest results. I became synchronized with the seasons and their gentle nuances. I took baby steps and was off and running at one point
I could call most plants by name these days and seem to instinctively know what to do when a problem arises. If things don’t work on my own accord, I seek help. I still am a failure with azaleas. Azaleas have been dying on my shift so I am staying away from them. I suspect it has something to do with the amount of light and too much water that has drenched the soil because of an unusually wetter, longer winter season. I said goodbye too to a beautiful sago palm that must have suffered root rot. Farewell too to a French lavender bush that gave me so much fragrance. The garden gets a lot of shade being in a Northwest orientation so I am quite alright with the fact that I will never have roses which I would love to have but can’t. Believe me, I tried. So I just admire them in my neighbors’ gardens with a southeast orientation.
My journey to self-discovery has been made easier by understanding the process of nature, the seasons and the nature of things: of why a seed no matter how good cannot grow in a certain type of soil; or how a young tree cannot grow in the shadow of a mighty oak; or of how much light a plant needs to burst with flowers, of the impeccable timing and the cycle of the seasons that are in God’s perfect divine order like a well rehearsed dance or a Beethoven symphony; of why you must resist moving a plant from a place where it is growing so well to another place simply to satisfy a whim or a feng shui decorating principle; when and where to prune, of knowing when to water by sticking a finger in the soil or noting the droop of the leaves; or the merits of clay pots and plastic pots; of when to re-pot or top dress; even how to propagate.
The most important lesson perhaps is learning when to leave well enough alone and letting go; of accepting death as part of life. I make it a point to take pictures when the flowers are in full bloom, knowing that no matter how pretty they are, their beauty is fleeting. I am left with images and memories.
These days, I have no time to spare for the garden. My circumstances have become more demanding and certain mandated human activities just suck the life out of me like a giant vacuum cleaner. Sigh…
The irony of it all is that the more I know, the more I realize how little I know. I guess that is the paradox of all lifelong learning. I now appreciate more clearly the delicate balance on which our planet depends for it to sustain life — of how vastly critical it is for everyone to do their part to ensure that life continues, specially that of human life.
One can see life’s longing for itself in the perennial grass that grows. There is great wisdom in gardening. If you dig in the garden long enough, you will find an infinite variety of the parallel laws that govern all life with unsurpassed clarity. Gardening, if you stick with it long enough, is a metaphor for human life itself.
Gardening has taught me a zen-like passive skill of enjoying quiet solitude, of observing what works and what won’t, of doing what needs to get done with very little struggle and ultimately, of accepting and of simply letting go when all I have done is all I can do.
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Nota Bene: Monette Adeva Maglaya is SVP of Asian Journal Publications, Inc. To send comments, e-mail [email protected]
