Gardening consumes my days and my energy.
You wouldn't necessarily know it by observing. I'm a slow learner. But over the past three springs, I have learned. Although my garden is far from what would qualify as an accomplished garden, each year it is a little better than the year before. This is both satisfying and reassuring. Although I learn slowly, although the climate and light and soil are different every time I have to start over, although change is a constant and elusive factor, I am learning.
The previous homeowner here did some curious placement of plants. I think back to our previous home, where we discovered peonies planted in the dense shade of the back beds, and I realize that when those people planted those flowers, the trees were probably much smaller and the yard much sunnier. Here, I think it was partly a matter of working with little potted specimens from the garden center, forgetting to account for how they would grow. The other part, I surmise, was an attempt to hide things from the voracious deer.
I spent a goodly amount of time and effort here, digging up small plants that were planted in shady spots behind tall plants, where they could neither be seen nor receive ample sunlight to grow. I often asked myself, "Why would you plant a short plant behind a tall plant?"
And yet, now that I am figuring things out, I find that I do it once in awhile, myself, on purpose. For instance, I planted some hardy geranium (cranesbill) behind sedum and agastache, which are roughly twice its height. This was a desperate attempt to figure out how to create an aesthetic display on our difficult south-western side, under a decorative maple that probably used to be much smaller than it is now. Shaded by the tree and the house for most of the morning, this bed then undergoes incredibly harsh sun beating down from approximately 2 pm until 6 pm. The sedum and agastache can pull through in the front row, but everything I used to try to plant behind them would topple forward, crushing them, reaching out scrawny branches desperate for sun during the shady mornings. Finally, I stopped trying to back them with taller plants, and stuck in a hardy geranium that can accept some strong sun, but also doesn't mind shade. Voila! A lovely mound of foliage dotted with fuschia flowers now fills in behind the front row, and I don't think it looks bad.
Our house came with a surprise shade bed on the northwest corner. It was a surprise, because when we moved in, the deer had eaten it down to nothing. But the following spring, a lovely collection of ferns and hostas, and a black lace elderberry bush, popped up, delighting me. Although it requires frequent and generous dousings with deer repellent, this bed is one of my joys. I've added a pale pink astilbe. Astilbes always make my heart sing.
The previous owners also planted a black cohosh and a purple oxalis in the shade bed. Black cohosh gets very tall, with plumes reaching 5-8 feet. Purple oxalis grows to 6-12 inches. Of course they planted the oxalis behind the cohosh.
To the left of this picture is the house, to the right, part of the back yard. A large green fern graces the top, and a variegated hosta sits near the bottom. The washed-out burgundy foliage that crosses over the grass line on the right, and the lacy green foliage under it are both part of the black cohosh, leaves at differing stages of maturity. Though this photo is taken from above, you can kind of tell that the cohosh is tall, because of the differences in the camera's focus. The little patch of deep purple on the left in the center is the purple oxalis, tucked away where it can't even be see from the yard.
I didn't know what either plant was until I was able to research and identify them. I learned that purple oxalis is usually a houseplant, doesn't generally survive outside, and doesn't like to be moved. So I left it where it is. It has been a consistent delight, coming back reliably each year, quietly existing under the cohosh. I only see this plant when I look for it, but when I do, there are almost always a few delicate pale pink blossoms floating among the dark purple foliage, brightening the dark shade in its corner.
See the hidden pink blossom?
The oxalis shades out a few weeds, and brings me joy when I happen across it after forgetting about it. That is all of its existence.
When I garden, I often think about how plants are like people. Of course, with plants, you always have next year to try again, and when you have children, you have one shot. Only one. Last year, the weather was very difficult, two late freezes and a tornado with hail. Oh how I labored over my gardens, and how they struggled. If the metaphorical equivalent happens to you with your children, that's that, and you have to take it and deal with it as best you can. You will not get another cycle to try again. This is a sobering truth, but it doesn't make me enjoy gardening any less. If anything, it makes me love it more, growing patience as I grow plants, learning to wait and hope, deeply treasuring each new spring with its fresh start.
I also think about how plants thrive in the right environment. I figure about 90% of gardening is finding the right spot to plant something. It makes me wonder why we don't spend more time trying to find where people will thrive, assessing strengths and weaknesses and shepherding people into the places where they will blossom and flourish.
We don't all have to be roses. We need all sorts. Some people are like zinnias and grow tall and colorful in the brightest sun, attracting butterflies and cheering hearts. Some people are like geraniums, pleasant and tolerant of many conditions, content to fill a supporting roll, not too imposing, not too showy, just really nice.
And some people are like purple oxalis, a houseplant stuck in a protected spot outside, displaying courage simply by surviving, beautiful only when someone takes the time to look for them.
