Tag Archives: gardening

It’s the motivation, stupid

As I puttered in the yard yesterday morning, a utility worker was making the rounds of the neighborhood, reading meters.

“Your yard looks really nice,” he said. “I wish I had that kind of motivation.”

I thanked him and then tried to minimize the compliment with self-deprecating humor: “I’d much rather work in the yard than clean my house!” We both laughed; he went on his way and I went back to weeding.

The truth of that remark stuck with me, though. Why do I feel that way? What is it about yard work that appeals to me, so much more strongly than house work?

A few things came to mind that were true but didn’t seem to carry enough weight. I love being outdoors. I love plants and critters, invertebrate as well as vertebrate. I love doing the stuff that yard work entails: digging, pruning, weeding. I also love doing laundry, though, and putting things away where they belong. What else, I wondered?

Yard work is very satisfying because the results are so tangible: the grass looks neatly trimmed, the beds are a pattern of flowers rather than a riot of weeds. But house work produces tangible results, too: dirt is removed, clutter becomes harmonious and orderly, questionable odors disappear.

But the results are so fleeting, I lamented. You clean up the kitchen from one meal and a couple hours later you start preparing the next meal. You wash all the clothes in the house and at the end of each day there’s a new pile of dirty clothes. When you mow the lawn, it looks nice for a week or more. When you weed, it takes a while for new weeds to grow.

And there it was — my “Aha!” moment. House work seems like such drudgery because the next mess happens almost as soon as its predecessor is cleaned up. Or worse yet, the next mess is in progress before you finish cleaning up the current mess. With yard work, you stand back at the end of the day and survey your accomplishments, knowing that you’ll get to savor it every time you pass through the yard for the next few days. With house work, you stand back at the end of the day and think, I get to do this all over again tomorrow.

Excuse me, Mr. DeMille, but what is my motivation in this scene?

Muscle memories

The ornamental pear trees that line the streets in my neighborhood have been in bloom for about a week now. Some of the blossoms have begun dropping their petals; when the wind catches them, it seems as though it’s snowing. Small drifts of white petals line the driveways and sidewalks and tiny white whirlwinds swirl down the middle of the street. Despite the vast numbers of trees and petals, there aren’t enough to blanket the ground, even directly beneath the trees. Gives me a new appreciation for just how many snowflakes are involved in a measurable snowfall!

Yesterday was a beautiful day to be outside, and I was able to spend most of it working in the yard. My muscles are deliciously sore today from all the digging, crouching, and schlepping — the aches and twinges are a physical memory of activity so enjoyable that I cheerfully overdid it. All day long I’ll get these little messages from my body reminding me of a day so gloriously spent, and the remembering will be a pleasure in itself.

No Advil for me!

Heterogeneous beds

I have decided to grow vegetables in the ornamental beds in my front yard this year. I have a perfect spot for vegetables along the south side of the house, but the entire length of that side is planted in liriope, which I want to transplant. However, I can’t transplant the liriope until the mowing strips are ready to receive it, and turning those ribbons of soilless hard-pan into planting beds is such a brutal chore that I always find something else to do instead. Maybe I should just rent a Bobcat and get it over with.

In any case, I don’t want to allow another growing season to pass without vegetables from my own yard, so I’m starting small. The day after St. Patrick’s Day I planted as many sugar snap peas as would fit along the trellises against the brick wall in the bed by the front porch. I usually grow ornamental hyacinth beans on those trellises, but I can’t plant them until the soil warms up a bit more. The peas should be done by the time the beans get to be any size, though I secretly hope that the beans will provide just enough shade in early summer to extend pea season a week or two. That, by the way, is an example of both succession planting and companion planting, for those of you keeping score at home.

I have also requested some fish pepper seedlings from a gardening friend for the planting bed along the driveway and sidewalk. Fish pepper is an African American heirloom hot pepper from the Chesapeake Bay area. The plants have beautifully variegated foliage and fruit; I fell in love with them the first time I saw a picture of them.

Perhaps my most daring move involves one of those upside-down tomato planters, which I plan to hang from a wrought iron shepherd’s crook. With cascading nasturtiums (edible flowers and leaves — great in tuna salad!) in the top of the planter, it may look like an elongated hanging basket. I should probably stick this contraption in the liriope bed along the south side of the house, just in case it doesn’t end up looking all that great, but I’m feeling a little reckless these days — I’ll probably put it in the middle of the front yard to signal my defiance against the norms of suburban lawn culture.

The more elusive satisfaction of writing

“I asked myself how to weigh the easy pleasure of gardening against the more elusive satisfaction of writing. And how to compare the private playfulness of growing flowers with the public experience of being published.” — Laurie Lisle, Four Tenths of an Acre

Yesterday I ruminated about the external nature of gardening and the internal nature of writing. Ms. Lisle is right, however, that gardening is a private pursuit in that one grows flowers, vegetables, herbs, and so on for one’s own pleasure, whereas publication has the word “public” as its root: the whole point is to get your work to as many people as might find it interesting or useful. How neatly paradoxical!

Ms. Lisle also describes the pleasure of gardening as easy and the satisfaction of writing as elusive. This must be in some measure due to the fact that success in gardening does not depend on others while success in writing is completely dependent on others. There is no audience in gardening, no market on whose vicissitudes one’s success hinges. There are most certainly forces beyond the gardener’s control that affect success — weather, pests, etc. — but plants have their own innate motivation and urge to succeed. The gardener merely needs to clear the way, so to speak.

One’s writing has no such inborn drive to succeed. In fact, more writing has died without ever seeing the light of day than has been published — talk about survival of the fittest! In this case, however, it is not necessarily the fittest work that survives as much as that which is championed by the most persistent or creative or fortunate advocate, be it author, editor, or agent. Wouldn’t it be lovely if a writer only had to clear the way!

Maybe the satisfaction of writing will prove to be less elusive in the digital world. E-books, blogs, e-zines, and web sites make it much easier for writers to get their work before an audience. I don’t know if it will ever catch up with gardening, but I think writing in this century will be a much more rewarding activity than it was by the end of the previous century.

The gardener who writes

“That afternoon I was struck by how much more gratifying gardening was than writing.” — Laurie Lisle, Four Tenths of an Acre

There are lots of reasons why this should be so, some quite obvious and others quite subtle. Gardening is an external, largely physical activity; writing is an internal, largely cerebral activity. One might be tempted to say that gardening is more satisfying because it yields more immediately visible results, yet writing very visibly transforms the blank page, filling it with form and content and meaning. Comparing the two is, in some sense, comparing apples to oranges; the alignment of their similarities and dissimilarities is too complex and nuanced to permit a straightforward analysis.

Maybe the answer lies not in the relative merits of these exercises but in their place on the evolutionary timeline of human behavior. Using the broader meaning of the terms, gardening clearly developed much earlier than writing and was practiced more widely throughout a greater portion of human history. It makes sense that the activities of gardening might be connected to more ancient areas of our brain, areas that are tied more closely to primitive motives of survival and pleasure than the language processing regions of the brain, which are relative newcomers on the developmental scene.

I suppose the real wonder is that any of us find the will to leave off gardening for anything other than eating or making love.

Gardening is a form of insanity

I’m wondering whether I should have named this blog “The Lunatic Gardener” because now that spring is here with a vengeance, all I want to write about is gardening. Of course, all I really want to DO is garden, but writing/talking/thinking/reading about gardening will do in a pinch.

I spent a couple hours this afternoon planting bulbs. I didn’t get all the bulbs I overbought in the fall planted before an unexpectedly normal winter set in, causing the ground to freeze when it should rather than never, as has been the case in recent years. I tucked the poor things away in a cold, dark corner of the garage to await an auspicious alignment of weather, soil conditions, and free time. Today was that magical day, though I still didn’t get them all in the ground. I have determined to pot up the remainder and let them do their thing, then dump the pots in the fall and plant the bulbs in the ground where they belong. I may even give some of the pots away as gifts once the plants are up and ready to bloom, with an offer to come plant the bulbs — in the ground — when they are done.

It feels so good to have a plan for the little darlings! Now I can sleep at night.

Seedy thoughts

Last week I attended a seed-starting workshop for home gardeners, and last night I helped a friend plant a couple flats of tomatoes for a community garden. At the workshop, a great deal of useful information was shared, much of it about methods and techniques. Seasoned gardeners shared their various (and sometime contradictory) experiences and perspectives, and the convener repeatedly emphasized that “the only truly right way to start seeds is whatever works for you.” I left with the bemused feeling that the whole exercise was something of a tempest in a teapot. Seeds will sprout, given even the most hostile conditions; it’s their nature, their very purpose. Efficiency and economy are merely trappings we humans bring to the process to make us feel useful while we wait for the seeds to perform their inevitable and mysterious function.

I was reminded of this while helping my friend put tomato seeds into tiny cell packs last night. My friend is capable of marvelous organization and attention to detail, and this comes through in his seed-starting preparations. He gave me a tool marked to show the depth at which the seeds were to be planted, and I made shallow holes with the tool, placed the designated number of seeds in each hole, then covered the holes and lightly tamped the soil with the tool. I felt so meticulous and scientific, working with a precision-marked tool and carefully labeled seed packets and cell packs! At the end of the evening he thanked me for my help, noting that it had gone faster than he expected because I didn’t agonize over the placement of each seed as he would have. He voiced no complaints about my performance of the task, and I marveled that it was nevertheless possible to approach it with even greater care and deliberation. I couldn’t help but think that the seeds have us right where they want us.