FROM THE ARCHIVES: I DIG, THEREFORE I AM

After 450 posts you'd think I'd have run out of things to write about. And frankly, sometimes I think I already have (thankfully, the thought lasts for only a minute). Still, that's no excuse to wimp out of this challenge to blog every day for this month. The trick is finding the discipline even if there's no inspiration to be found.

So I decided to dig into my archives and check out what I was thinking about around this time four years ago. Funny thing is it's the same thing I've been mulling over this past week: my need to get back to my garden to prepare it for cooler temperatures. But just to prove that I'm hardly stagnant, my tiny oasis now looks quite different from how I described it then: the easy-care Mediterranean greenery that I sourced mostly from local nurseries and home centers has made way for specimen plants that I've truly fallen in love with. Courage (and confidence gained from no longer killing plants) has made that possible. That story, however, is for another day.

The post below is from November 2004.

All gardens are a form of autobiography.
- Robert Dash

I finally found some time today to sink my hands into the earth and work on my pocket gardens both in the patio and balcony. Armed with a pair of newly-sharpened pruners, I cut back my plants to get them ready to bloom next Spring. It's hard to believe the night-blooming jasmine and clematis vines, which bloomed so profusely this past Summer, are now bare and skeletal.

I started gardening in earnest about five years ago. I planted a variety of herbs in window boxes and pots in my tiny apartment patio. There were lots of casualties during those early days. I killed even hardy plants such as rosemary and lavender ("How could you have killed them? You can't possibly kill those plants if you tried!" asked Stacy, increduously. Well I did.). When the bugs came, I had to buy a garden book just to figure out what these pesky pests were and how to kill them. I used the strongest chemicals I could get my hands on, committing the crime of overkill that novices are wont to do.

When I moved into this townhouse, the patio was an eyesore; the previous owner had stuck a few plants in random spots (I suspect wherever the earth wasn't too hard to dig). She also created a strange elevated half-moon nook with large stones, and stuck a rose tree in the middle of it. Ugly, ugly. For a year I'd walk outside  and sigh, walk back into the house and draw the curtains so I wouldn't have to see the pitiful brown-and-grey vista.

I asked my father for help when he visited me one year. I gave him my project limitations: I had no money and no time. My poor dad, dubbed the "Father of Landscape Architecture" back home, was hardly inspired. But he gave me an encouraging pat on the shoulder, as if to say, "don't worry, you'll figure it out."

Soon after, I got laid off when the company I worked for went under. Voila, I finally had time (but alas, even less cashflow). My life at that point was like being at the peak of a rollercoaster ride; I knew I was about to take a steep dive, unable to control the speed and direction of my fall to wherever I was headed. So one day, as I took my usual look at the barren landscape, I decided to finally take charge  and attack my tormentor. Every day, in-between resume writing and interviewing, I spent a few hours outside and dug, planted, and fertilized. I poured bags and bags of cedar woodchips and walk-on bark to cover the grey earth, and built a little path using circular wood pieces. I was a regular at all the local nurseries, spending hours looking at plants and talking to the experts. I read all the books and magazines available on gardening and landscape design, and my TV was tuned to HGTV 24/7.

Not too long ago, I realized this entire experience, which seemed to consist of a series of meaningless and trivial daily tasks, had changed me profoundly. I finally gained the one virtue that had escaped me previously: Patience. As hard as I tried, I could not control nature -- plants bloom and die, pests come and build colonies, Santa Ana winds forced through the foothills whoosh in with unforgiving havoc, and the scorching sun dehydrates and burns tender roots and leaves. I was awed and humbled by nature, and had no choice but to respect it.  Even if I wanted to situate a particular plant in a certain spot because it looked pretty, I had to move it if it didn't like where it was. I also learned to pull back and allow nature to create its own balance; for instance, I no longer exterminate insects with untempered glee. I've learned that beneficial insects arrive to feast on the pests if you leave well enough alone, and I now spray a little bit of insecticidal soap (Vs. harsh toxins) when the latter starts getting the upper hand.

So now when it's nice outside, my cat Boo and I sit on the patio chairs -- she naps while I read. The air is fragrant when soft winds blow and sway the lemon geraniums, apricot-scented fragrant olive, and yes, abundant rosemary and lavender. We watch the hummingbirds quickly come and go (for such little things, they sound  like helicopters!), and listen to the soothing sound of water trickling through a small fountain I put together using glazed pottery and bamboo. These simple moments I treasure for they are my reward. I might have created my garden, but my garden made me.