Longing for My Secret Garden

Photo: Japanese butterbur flower, all 'leaf' and little bud, is an early arrival in my garden. The entire thing is a flower! When the plant matures, it produces giant leaves that crave shade. The image shows elongated, pointed petals in pale green forming a radius around small, white poms at the crown. The earth below is strewn with dry leaves, brown twigs and old pine needles.

    As the snow lay thick in my yard, blanketing all visible signs of grass, low-lying plants, and flower beds, I dreamt of the warming breezes of spring. This year's abundant snowfall had persisted though we had become accustomed to the freeze-and-thaw conditions of recent winters. One of my favorite spring rituals is the gentle clearing away of leaves and the heavy mulch of winter. It is like unwrapping a delicate present - carefully removing the outer layers to reveal the tiny, tender growth emerging from warming soil. I do this with my gloved fingers and a miniature child's rake.

    There is a wonderment in this process. I had, just a handful of months ago, eased these flower beds into slumber, by cutting away the overgrowth, nipping back the season's spent foliage, and tucking the soil in beneath a layer of dry leaves and compost. And so my garden slept, waiting for the joyous act of awakening. And I waited, too.

    In spring and summer, I am busy - like the bumblebee, like the hummingbird. I hardly know where to go first! Soon as I get there, I am thinking about where I should go next. I want to do it all, I want to welcome each sprout, greet every tendril curling from the rich earth. There will be the old favorites: friends I planted years ago risen from their rest, and there will be first-years: little cuttings gifted by garden buddies that have finally taken root. Each year, they surprise me, even the plants I've had for more than a decade. It is sheer exhilaration to witness the pointy green horns of hosta emerging, frilly primrose peeking out, and fronds of soft ferns curling towards the sun. Last summer, I planted three small hellebore plants I received from my friend Sue. Like snowdrops, crocus and daffodils, these showy blossoms are early risers. Others, like trillium, forget-me-nots, and bleeding hearts sleep in a little longer. Warming days, temperate nights, and sprinkling rain showers will make it all happen. 

    While the winter lingers long here in Zone 5, the longing begins - I almost can't bear to look at a seed catalog without feeling that hunger for cultivation, growth, and the unbridled exuberance of nature. Sometimes, I venture out into the garden as the snow melts and gives way to moist and mossy earth, where insects and worms and snails are busy, and I pretend not to remember what was where last year. It is a dear and special surprise to rediscover your own secret garden each spring.

    I will start with one flower bed and advance to the next, unveiling, peering, loosening, allowing and enabling the way that nature will advance and proliferate. Rather than try to control it, like I tend to do in so many aspects of my professional life, I allow my garden to do what it will, and gently attempt to guide it as you would a gifted child - nudging but not imposing, abetting without interrupting.

    My garden gives me creative play, the rewards of witnessing growth, and the therapy of hands in soil. It allows me the opportunity to put winter's pent-up energies to use, to create space for the plants that will emerge, mature, blossom and make way for their neighbors. What starts out in cool shades of periwinkle, cornflower and chalk blue, turns into butter-yellow, bright-white and canary, evolves to mauve, magenta and claret and settles into crimson, scarlet and marmalade. Even the foliage brings color and variety to each bed as the contrasts and textures overlap and accent.

    Each year, I attempt to bring a little order to the chaos, try to tame plants that tend to grow wild and crowd their neighbors, train the babies to move a certain way, and be not only visually pleasing, but also to offer evocative scents and variations. I also don't turn down an occasional enthusiastic and pleasant 'weed' when it appears. It is all part of the magical ecosystem of my garden. Perennials are long-term investments that pay huge dividends. And when the stock splits, you can share the profits with a friend.