The Healing

The air has been warm and the breeze steady the past few weeks. I've been busy in the yard, clearing away the damage from the frost in February. There has been a lot of pruning and watering and fertilizing, a lot of digging up and moving and rearranging. The past two weeks have seen the addition of petunias, impatiens, bougainvillea, snapdragons, hydrangeas, bellflowers, cannas and to a seldom-visited part of the yard: tomatoes, bell peppers, yellow straightneck squash and cucumbers. And after reading Frances Mayes' A Year in the World, I potted sweet basil, mint and rosemary, hoping the fragrance and taste will transport me once again to Spain, Italy and Greece, holding me over until I can make it back again next year.

 

I had fretted after the frost, but Mother Nature seems to know what she's doing. Aside from the hibiscus, many of which are not doing too well, everything else rebounded, and beautifully so. It seems as though every flower is on the verge of exploding: I have Egyptian papyrus overtaking part of the yard, with its thread-like rays reminding me of fireworks; the white and purple agapanthus, or Lily of the Nile, are also ready to burst: several of their funnel or trumpet-shaped flowers are emerging, one here, another there. Soon they will be top-heavy, bending their stems in a most graceful arch, each one leaning into the sun; the Birds of Paradise, such odd, yet beautiful flowers, are also doing quite nicely, punctuating the pink, purple and white floral landscape with a touch of orange. One of the cannas is in bloom, too, adding a little more orange, although hers is a deeper, burnished shade.

 

The climbing roses are a curious thing, as they had been removed, entirely, from two fence lines. Their root stock is hardier than I ever imagined, because they have grown back with a vengeance. At first it didn't appear they'd bloom, yet miraculously, they have. Another point of interest is that we also had the climbers in the front of the house, along the walkway. There were palms out front, too, but further away, and around a corner. I transplanted the palms to the backyard and now, roses are springing up around them. Obviously, the rose roots grew long and deep and knew how to travel around corners. They intermingled with the palm and are now ready to bloom.

 

I haven't decided if I'm going to keep them where they are: the area is crowded with ivy geranium in beautiful pinks and reds, which seem to be ignoring their bed boundaries. They are growing up the palms and into the papayrus, around and into and on top of everything else in its way. Keeping it trimmed is a challenge, and on some days I long for a perfectly sculpted English garden, or one solely of roses. Other days have me longing for nothing but tropical plants. But on most days, I love the haphazard look to it all:

 

Roses, hydrangeas, night-blooming jasmine, ivy geraniums, Siberian irises, fountain grass, Lily of the Nile, cannas, birds of paradise, bellflowers, petunias, impatiens and the trees: ornamental plums and a liquid amber and the palms--22 of them, at last count: Sago, Canary, Fan, Queen, Robellini.

There is intended structure, but it seems as the years pass, the freedom and flexibility in respect to the land, itself, is stronger than any form I could give the garden. And in working with the land, rather than against it, there is an emerging beauty I could never have imagined.

 

I don't know the name for the time of day, just before dusk, when the sun is low and gold and its light filters through the leaves and fronds and blades, making them appear clear, almost like glass and lit from within: they glow amazing shades of green. But whatever that time of day is called, I think it's my favorite time. The yellow finches and hummingbirds come over to the fountain for a late afternoon drink and bath. The alto chimes sing in the breeze. I catch the scent of jasmine. The ground is still warm underfoot. There is a moment of rest, a sense of the day's completion that envelopes me and in those moments, like my garden after the frost, I am healed.