Of Pine Straw and Hellebores

Gardeners do strange things. Every year I clear leaves from the hardwood trees that shade my yard, then drive several miles to purchase pine tree refuse from a nursery and spread it on the ground. I get satisfaction from this ritual. It instantly transforms the pathways into a uniform reddish brown and sets them apart from  the garden beds, which this time of year are full of decaying leaves and a few early daffodils.

Still, the ritual seems a bit absurd. I am sure that at some future time, people will be amazed at the stupidity of Southerners who spread highly flammable pine straw all over their yards and around their buildings. But the house is going on the market Friday, so this year is not the year to disdain norms of appropriate appearance.

Since I am choosing not to rebel against the realtor who has filled my bathrooms with white towels we can't touch and banished most of the lamps to the shed, I will speak out against the flower breeders who have corrupted one of my favorite flowers.  Hellebores, or Lenten rose, are the joy of my garden in late winter.

Hellebores were born to face down, like bells. They evoke modesty and mystery, with their soft pinkish-purplish white petals.

But our culture doesn't value reserve. People who are loud and outspoken are more entertaining on TV. We like our flowers obvious, too. (Have you noticed the trend toward extremely large blooms on ordinary annuals?) So nurseries are now filled with freakish hellebores with flowers that open upwards.

Hellebores don't look good with their stamens showing - they're unusually plain. So I have none of these expensive freaks. All of my hellebores are descended from one parent. Here is mama hellebore.

I love my hellebores because they're really not mine. They grew from seeds I didn't sow and plants I didn't do anything to care for. Here's how to grow hellebores:

1) Wait until they sprout under the parent plant.
2) Thin the seedlings.
3) In a year or so, transplant them into bare spots in the garden.
4) Ignore them for years.

Hellebores take about four years to bloom. That's another thing I appreciate about hellebores - they refuse to accommodate themselves to our need for instant gratification. Appreciate hidden beauty, they say. Marvel at nature's fecundity. Slow down. Wait for transformation. Live on nature's time, not human time.

Pine Tree Praise

Father Brian Pierce spent years working with the Lenca Indians in the mountains of Western Honduras. One year he participated in a ritual in which the Indians, carrying pine boughs, processed through the mountains singing. They arrived at a church decked with pine boughs.

Father Brian, filled with curiosity, asked the shaman about the significance of the pine boughs. The shaman's eyes became wide and he said, "You mean you don't know?"

"If you listen long enough at the foot of a pine tree, you'll hear the pine tree singing to God."

Camellia

I walked past this camellia bush while on my way to comprehensive exams. 

Nature Reflections

There is an irony in being a nature blogger. It is easy to spend more time using technology to blog about nature than actually enjoying nature. So today I deliberately left the good digital camera at home during my hike along New Hope Creek. 

I hadn't walked far when the leap in my heart whispered, "take a picture." So I pulled out the smart phone. The creek was low and still, the sky was achingly blue, the trees just starting to turn color, the low angle of the sun perfect for reflection. 

What is this urge to capture the moment? To hold it, to share it? I sat by the creek and meditated, trying to empty myself of words that describe, images to hold. It's hard. 

On the way back, I encountered another still life in a pool among the rocks. 

It's my new screensaver.

Or do I like it better upside down? A peek out of a cave at trees blurred by a breeze, leaves floating in the air. 

We love nature, yet we can't stop manipulating it. 

Gardening in November

Dead leaves and pine needles coat the ground, but the hickories glow golden and I’m glad to see the sun after a few days of gloom. November is my least favorite month.

I’m usually tired of the garden by now, and there’s not much to look at anyway, aside from a pale purple carpet of eastern aromatic asters near a giant boulder. October’s slanting light is beautiful, but by November the days are short and thick clouds often block the sun. I have the gift – or curse – of sensitivity to light, and I feel the change of seasons as my outlook darkens and all I want to do is sleep. It’s a season of death and dormancy, and it seems ridiculous to hope, or even think of spring, before the leaves have finished falling from the trees.

Yet I count on gardening for a sense of renewal, so I was glad it was my day to volunteer at the North Carolina Botanical Garden. We raked paths, pulled bittersweet and honeysuckle, picked up sticks. Inexplicable that these tasks could be so satisfying. But the sun was warm and I find it impossible to brood when gardening.

Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh advises seekers of mindfulness to devote full attention to what you’re doing, no matter how mundane. When you wash the dishes, wash the dishes, he says. Easy to say and almost impossible to do, but I come closer in the garden than elsewhere. When you weed, weed. When you rake, rake.