Last June we left town for three days just as the runaway train called spring was beginning to slow down. Before leaving I did my morning garden walk-through, per usual. Then we drove away, and then we drove back. Got home Sunday afternoon. Gone a staggering total of 55 hours. What was the first thing I did when we arrived home? Yep. Walked the garden. And marveled at how much everything had changed!
Mind you, the reason we left was to visit our six-month-old granddaughter, whom we had actually seen only two weeks before. Yes, she had changed too. Was rolling over now, almost crawling. Seemed more alert. Skinnier. Taller. Looked and acted more like a real human being. But I couldn’t help but notice how much her changes paled in comparison to those of my garden.
Except for a few months in winter, a diverse garden is an incredibly dynamic thing. This is one reason I walk mine every day. Obsessively. Ritualistically. If I’m being honest, I usually visit the garden twice a day in season. Or probably more. And I know I look insane to my neighbors—but I truly believe those daily garden strolls are what keep me sane. Or at least they bolster my ability to fake it.
But the main reason I compulsively pace the garden is because I am almost certain to discover something new and interesting has happened. Almost every time. Practically guaranteed. This emerges. That goes into bloom. The first hummer shows up. The first tiger swallowtail. The first tomato. If you turn around for one second, you’ll miss something. It’s damn near a full-time job just monitoring the garden. And an important one. Which is why I also take pictures most times I’m out there. They capture the changes. They capture the beauty. And, with luck, they capture the moments that I hope to more fully enjoy during the downtime of winter. Or when I’m old. (All right, older.)
But just monitoring the garden isn’t all I’m doing. I’m also standing guard. Go all derelict on my duty and try to enjoy something else, and I won’t be there to water the ligularia when it wilts or pull an oxalis before it casts thousands of seeds in every direction. If I miss the break in the fence that allows deer to get in—oh Lord, the changes I’ll see then! Great. Big. Horrible. Changes. Every phlox, lily and daylily flower bud consumed. Every sedum reduced by half. Every hosta a ghost to be wistfully remembered in photographs taken previously in the week. Some day. Maybe next winter.
Writing this, I am realizing how utterly and reprehensibly irresponsible it is to go away—ever—during the growing season. For any reason. Go to a ballgame? Nope. Hours spent elsewhere. Visit family? I can text. Church? Surely God, more than anyone, understands the need for standing guard over one’s creation.
Illustration credit: Tom Beuerlein
