May Frenzy

May 11, 2021
May Frenzy

This year the gardening season began in mid, perhaps even early, March. Who can remember an event that happened so long ago? Typically, I do not get out in the garden until April 1. So when March turned into April, April turned into May. Nevertheless, early May is still May.

May in the garden is a month of frenzy. The relative calm of cleaning up is over and a mad moving of plants, purchasing of plants, and planting of plants begins. Early May is the perfect time to see holes that need to be filled and plants that are in the wrong place, and to take in the news of what has died over the winter and must be replaced.

The ground is still cool and wet, the plants are still half asleep, and so on any day that does not bring the needed rain the gardener is up early, dividing, transplanting, planting. So far this year the following plants have been moved: a small Cornus mas, also know as the Cornelian cherry though it is, of course, a dogwood; a sumac; a fairly large Japanese plum yew (Cephalotaxus); a relatively large Physocarpus ‘Coppertina’; and a substantial variegated Sawara cypress (Chamacypaeris pisifera) – not, of course, without help. (Thank you, Ben and Kevin!) Each move has improved the design of the garden as a whole, creating a more pleasing landscape, and each has met my goal of covering ground.

I have also divided and moved many, many, many perennials in order to improve the garden’s design, fill in the holes, and save plants that have finally convinced me they are in the wrong spot.

May demands that I work outside whenever the weather permits. This includes Sunday mornings, when otherwise I would attend my Quaker Meeting for Worship on Zoom. I missed Meeting again this past Sunday as the day was perfect for moving plants around. But it comforts me to consider that designing a landscape can also be a way to spiritual discernment and growth.

I remember so clearly an experience I had a few years ago when taking a class at the Berkshire Botanical Garden. The class, taught by Walter Cudhohufsky, was called “Traveling Design Clinic,” and indeed we traveled to different sites. At each site we talked about the principles of landscape design.

Before we arrived at our first site, Walter impressed upon us a lesson: “First impressions are crucial and you only get them once, so pay attention to what you experience.”  When we got to the site, we were given a few minutes to jot down our initial impressions. But instead of asking us to share these notes, Walter asked us to tell him what we saw on the site. “Effective design starts with a response to existing conditions,” he said, “so you have to see what is there.”  Hands flew up as everyone rushed to share what they saw. We were all thinking, “Wow, this is easy, why was I so nervous, I don’t even have to share my notes.”

“I see a large maple that looks to be diseased.” “I see a fence that seems to have no point to it.” “The driveway comes too close to the house.” “There is a problem of proportion between garden and house.”  Then a smart one, anticipating a later lesson about being positive, offered, somewhat weakly, “I like the way the path leads to the front door.”   But Walter was shaking his head and not just because of the negatives. “I want description, not judgment,” he said. “If you start with judgment – the fence has no point, the tree is diseased, the driveway’s too close, the path is nice – you will rush to design before you even know what you have to work with.”

And then he delivered what proved to be my favorite line of the day: “Preconceived notions are the enemy of good solutions.”  While the rest of the class struggled to supply him with observations stripped of judgment – “three white pines in a clump,” “clapboard house with wrap around porch,” “side lawn slopes down to stream” – I began to wonder if things might not go better in the landscape of my life if I made an “inventory of the actual” before coming to judgments and designing solutions.

Then Walter started talking about feelings. He asked us to think about how the space made us feel. He directed us back to our first impressions as a source of vital information and told us that after we made our “inventory of the actual” we needed to make a catalogue of the feelings the site inspired in us. “Feelings are crucial,” he announced. “They drive the whole process, they keep it vital and local. If the driveway makes you anxious because it is too close to the house, chances are it makes the homeowner anxious too.”

By the last site we visited, we were all working hard at being little Cudnohofskys. However, we were not succeeding. The scene was unimpressive at best, boring and dreary at worst. A large deck projected out over a gravel patch that joined a sparse lawn that in turn sloped down to a line of scrub brush. The two sides of the yard were lined with blue spruces which, we all agreed, were about sixteen blue spruces too many.

We shuffled, scrunched, and twisted as Walter kept pressing his point. “We are not leaving this site,” he told us, “until you can find the positives. There are always plenty of positives. You just need to keep looking.”  We looked again, dug deeper (those blue spruces create a great privacy screen, the scrub brush provides habitat for wildlife) and finally came up with a list that satisfied him. But I was once again lost in reverie, thinking that finding the positives that must be there would be a good way to approach the backyard of my life.

As we left the last site, it was clear that Walter had a lot more to say, but he knew we were done. I was exhausted from trying to absorb the lessons already shared: Honor first impressions. See what is actually there. Respect your feelings. Find the positives. Use a level 2 solution for a level 2 problem; use a level 5 solution for a level 5 problem.

Back at the Botanical Garden, I was headed to my car when a fellow traveler shouted out: “Preconceived notions are the enemy of good solutions.”  We all did a high five in the air and swore that we would return for the sequel in two weeks.

I didn’t return. But I have never forgotten the lessons, even if I lapse in the practice of them. And, of course, I have not forgotten the key lesson for me: designing a garden, a landscape, can be a form of spiritual practice. I take comfort in this as I move the Astilbe and resettle the Echinops. I am almost done with this work. Perhaps in a couple of weeks I will be able to return to Sunday morning Meeting for Worship.