GIGI GOES GAGA

KILLING THE PEACE

I need to confess something deeply shameful right now.

I killed a peace lily -- a plant generally considered one of the easiest to keep alive. A peace lily will tell you when it's thirsty -- its leaves will droop -- and will revive quickly once you water it. It doesn't need a lot of light to thrive and you don't need to feed it much. So my plant seemed happy where it stood, alert and proud, getting fuller each month, and occasionally displaying white flowers whenever it demanded to be noticed.

But then I got complacent -- and I don't mean benign neglect on my part. I got downright cocky. I decided that I'd let a pretty glass watering globe take care of my plant's watering needs so I wouldn't have to check on it as often.  Then one day it wasn't looking as perky; soon its leaves turned yellow and I realized what I'd done, but it was too late. Riddled with guilt -- or more likely, blinded by pride -- I thought that a late dose of attention and care would reverse the damage done. But I had to call it: death by drowning.

I remembered my early attempts at gardening. Even my friend Stacy was stunned: "How'd you kill rosemary?" I'd killed lavender, too, and even mint. My father, in his sweet attempt to reassure and encourage me, told me there was no such thing as a brown (or black) thumb; all it took was practice. So I kept at it, in spite of each failure, until I turned my tiny backyard with the poorest soil, scorched by the blistering rays of Southern California sunlight and Santa Ana winds, into an oasis. In the spring, spending afternoons outdoors was like being in my own Disney movie; birds came to nest, butterflies flitted about, and even the neighborhood cats climbed in to nap (much to my own cat's consternation).

So now I live in the suburbs of Seattle in a tiny apartment with a balcony. I've spent the past two years creating a potted garden, where I can sit outside and pretend that I'm not only steps away from a busy freeway. Although tending to a garden is a work in perpetual progress, I've also turned my verdant eye indoors, where there is more square footage to fill with plants. The thing I quickly forgot, however, is that each one has its own sun and water requirements, which vary according to the seasons. I started paying more attention to my new family of succulents, which in the past I've had no success with, and gave my "easy care" plants no care at all. 

My poor peace lily gave up its life for me to notice that when you care for living things, you must pay attention. Always.

I've said repeatedly in this little blog of mine that gardening has taught me life's most important lessons. How to be patient, how being in the right place can help us grow, and why perseverance brings the best chance of success. But here's one of the most basic lessons of all: never take anything or anyone for granted. We may think that there are those who will always be here, the most loyal and steadfast people in our lives. But if we forget that they also require a bit of care, that their needs can vary with their circumstances in life, we may one day discover that they are no longer around as the bright spots in our life. Or us, in theirs.

At least once a week, I stick my finger inside the soil of each pot to check if it needs watering. Once a month or so I feed those that require it. The rest of the time, I enjoy being surrounded by all this beauty. So little to give for so much in return. We all thrive with just a bit of constant time and care.

 

 

SIX MONTHS SANS SHOPPING

After years of resolving to overhaul my life every January 1st, I decided a while back to keep it as general as possible: be grateful and kind, try something new, don't be afraid to fail. Committing to a gym membership only resulted in my checking account seeing more action than I was by the time February rolled around, and I've given up giving up on chocolate. This year, however, I have one resolution -- and it's HUGE.

I will not shop for six months. It's only been six days since the year started and I'm still working out the rules, but so far I've decided that "no shopping" means the following.

What I cannot buy

• Clothes, shoes, lingerie, accessories
• Makeup, fragrance, and other beauty products (incl. hair care)
• Furniture, home accessories, art work
• Gadgets and tech (unless essential for work)
• Books and music
• Pretty things that are non-essential to living (for example: stationery, toys/apparel for my shih tzu Scout, Funko Pop, etc.)

What I can buy

• Food (groceries, restaurants)
• Experiences (for example: travel, visits to museums)
• Health-related items (including toothpaste and floss)
• Plants and gardening supplies - spring falls within the first half of the year and so I made this an exception
• Home cleaning supplies - I can be frugal, but never filthy
• Monthly grooming: hair cut and color, facial, manipedi, and massage appointments - this is part of my DNA, even mom was this way -- and heck, she was at the salon two or three times a week!
• Gifts (preferably belonging to any of the categories in my "can buy" list)

Look: I'm still working out the details. I'm the sort of gal who can easily try to rationalize how an exquisite pair of shoes could be classified under "experiences" -- but I know that would simply be defeating the point of this exercise. So what exactly is the point of this then? To prove to myself that there's very little that I really need and to save for what's more important. I've been asking myself lots of questions.

What if I run out of hair conditioner? I'll need to go through all my samples and use them ALL first before I can buy a bottle.

I love to read and listen to music -- why deprive myself of that? I won't; I'll just borrow books from the library and listen to Spotify.

I lost 15 lbs. and my pants are too loose now -- does this mean I'll look like a stupid boy in the '90s? No, I'll just get them altered (I've decided this is an approved expense).

Oh no, I'm going to lose Sephora VIB Rouge status! Still sad about this, actually, but just think of how much I will save!

For years I've been reading accounts of people who have given up all spending, but I simply can't adopt a Frontier House kind of lifestyle. What finally inspired me was this piece in the New York Times by the writer Ann Patchett, who gave up shopping for an entire year. I've decided to try it for the first half of the year, assess what I gained from the experience, and then keep going if I feel I want or need to. Although this may sound very superficial for some of you, my little endeavor will cause me to make significant changes in my daily life, perhaps even to my psyche.

For most of my life I saw myself as an Ugly Duckling who simply learned how to groom herself. I became interested in fashion and beauty because I saw their transformative powers early on. My dad once heard a fashion designer friend of his say that there was no such thing as an ugly woman, just a stupid one -- and he repeated it to me when I was still a preteen (to this day I don't know if it was merely a casual remark or if he was trying to tell me something). Once I learned how to make the most of my body type and features, I then discovered a desire to surround myself with the prettiest things I could afford. When I first moved out on my own and had very little disposable income, I owned exactly two sets of "grown-up" plates, cutlery, and glassware, plush towels, and soft cotton sheets. I had one cooking pan -- a Calphalon, which I purchased at Conran's Habitat at the Beverly Center. I'm hardly extravagant -- but I like things that are aesthetically pleasing, that smell nice and feel good. But as Astrud Gilberto once sang, "Tell me how long must I keep wanting things, needing things when I have so much?" This stops now.

Now it's time for me to make purchasing decisions that go way beyond what appeals to my senses. In the past six days I've purchased a cable that connects my work laptop to a monitor (for when I work at home), yellow sticky traps for gnats and flying insects (I brought my plants indoors for the winter), and takeout dinner from a nearby Japanese restaurant (a Friday tradition). Each time, before I pulled out my wallet, I asked myself carefully: do I need this? do I have any options that don't involve buying something? Satisfied with the answers -- there wasn't an extra one at work, gnats are gross, and relaxing date nights at home once weekly are hardly unreasonable -- I think I'm off to a good start.

Wish me luck. I'll report back in six months.

 

 

 

STILL HERE

I started this blog 12 years ago, the same year Zuckerberg launched theFacebook at Harvard, and a full year before he dropped the "the," moved the company to Palo Alto, and opened registration to anyone over the age of 13. We had Friendster and MySpace back then (although I may have opened a profile at each site, I was never active on either) and I belonged to a community of personal bloggers. At the time I was married and living in South Orange County CA, I had a quirky tabby named Boo who barked like a dog, and I was still figuring out how to make a pocket garden out of a pile of dirt in the back of our townhome.

How times have changed.

Most of the blogs I visited regularly back then have either shut down or are still up and refreshed with a new post once in a rare while, as this one is, and all the bloggers I got to know only through their words and photographs are now my active friends on Facebook. About six years ago, my beloved 18-year-old cat died, my marriage ended, and I left my home that had become a thriving green space and a refuge for birds, bees, and even the neighborhood cats. A few years after that my mother died, followed by my father eight months later. In between I fled to Manila then shortly after I flew off to Seattle in search of a new home. I was homeless for a while there; I remember filling out an immigration form on the plane, not knowing what to write in the section that asked for my permanent address.

I moved to the Pacific Northwest at the tail-end of the recession and discovered that not only was looking for a job difficult when you had no job, but even more so when you didn't know anyone in the city and had no one to refer you to their company HR department. So with my tail between my legs I walked into the nearest Victoria's Secret and applied for a part-time sales position. In the '90s I had been a store manager for the company and swore I'd never go back when I left. With my meager paycheck I lived in subsidized housing on a street so infamous it has its own Wikipedia page, in an apartment with barely no furniture, not even a plant or a bed. I had no health insurance when I needed it most and on days when I saw Andrew Jackson's face on the bill in my wallet I'd feel relieved, knowing I'd have enough for groceries for the week.

Things got better. I started making more money and was able to move into a brand-new apartment community; I no longer had to keep looking out my bedroom window to check if my car was still in the parking lot. My divorce was finalized but my ex and I were not only friendly but laughing together again. A former co-worker was able to help me find a temp job that paid about three times my hourly wage at the store. I was able to replace my Mac desktop that had conked out on me and no longer had to reserve one at the neighborhood library. I saw a doctor again and started getting my health back on track.  I now made regular hair appointments with my stylist (no longer only twice a year) and get occasional manipedis when I felt I needed one.

Today I'm still living in that apartment -- now with furniture, a sweet one-year-old shih tzu named Scout, and a man who is typing on his laptop across from me as I now type this post on mine. The balcony teems with scented plants and edibles, and there are now pops of green in various corners indoors. My temp job became a permanent one complete with a generous benefits package. I moved from a corner cube to an office and was recently one of 100 nominees culled from across the entire company considered for this year's short list of "essential" employees.

Nothing's perfect, to be sure, and there's been the bad (emergency appendectomy and subsequent medical bills) to offset the very good (Camino de Santiago). If the past few years have taught me anything it's that one day we can be in the gutter looking up at the stars, wondering if and when we'll be able to stand up again just to get a closer peek at the light. The point is to keep looking up, to keep pushing up and out with your palms and heels and then get up, no matter how wobbly you may feel at first. Whatever happens -- whether you reach the stars or settle for a cloud or simply have your feet planted firmly on the ground -- you'll be grateful to be standing up at all.

It's been 12 years since I started this blog -- and I'm still here, standing. And writing now again, because it's the only thing I do that I don't have to question doing.

 

ROOT ROT

Most people I know can stay in the same place for a very long period of time, maybe even their entire lives, and be perfectly happy -- or at least adequately content. Some can stay in the same jobs and maintain routines, day in and out, and find a way to make what they do fulfilling, quite challenging even. I think of these people as towering oak trees with roots as deep as the earth; they stand where and as they do and serve a great purpose to those around them. These trees protect those underneath them from the harsh glare of the sun, and shower soft streams of filtered light through their thick, broad leaves and allow them to flourish and grow. All kinds of creatures take refuge within their strong branches and children sit at their knotted feet and lean upon their massive trunks as they try to get a bit of rest from their play.

But me, I get root rot. And I'll never be an oak tree.

The only thing constant about me is change. As soon as I was old enough to be independent I moved from Manila to Los Angeles -- and kept on moving. I moved between schools, residences, jobs, even relationships. I moved every time I felt as if I were about to get waterlogged, although sometimes I had to because I had no other choice, even if I wasn't ready to. But each time I did, I managed to figure it out; I learned how to make the unfamiliar a bit more agreeable and build up a new home around me.

The funny thing is that I don't do much globetrotting, at least not yet -- unlike, say, my older sister who can throw a backpack around her shoulders at a moment's notice, hop on a plane, and find a brand new place to explore. I like to, instead, stay in one place for a while until the scenery's burned into into my mind's eye, and then only move when I feel like I have nothing more to learn.

Perhaps my restlessness is a result of my belief that I've not been fulfilling my potential and purpose, as well as due to my intense desire and need to live with passion. I've always been afraid, however, to define just what my potential, purpose, and passion is. Whenever I've been close to discovering it I start to fear what it might mean for me to find it: will I be alone? will I be poor? will what I need to give up be more than I'm willing to part with?

And so no wonder I merely move around -- learning something new each time, but never really finding myself. I've always thought of myself as a person who jumped with both feet, and only recently realized that I was tethered to an invisible bungee cord that I forgot about. This year I've decided to cut that cord and simply jump. I can't begin to describe how utterly terrified I am, and of so many different things at that. But I'm seeking my home now -- whatever or wherever that might mean for me -- and the only way I'll find it is to work through the fear and make real change.

A few years ago I bought a rare Japanese Maple tree online, in the smallest size they were available because it was all I could afford. I was thrilled when I saw it slowly thrive and grow; within a year I moved it from its grower's pot into a larger, prettier container, where it continued to bloom during Spring and shed its leaves in the Fall. But last year, nothing happened as the seasons came and went, and even now again as the other Japanese Maple trees in my garden have begun to show off their brilliant colors. This little tree remained leafless and frighteningly still for an entire year.

I was afraid that perhaps it had died of root rot, even if its fragile trunk appeared to be (barely) alive. So a few weeks ago I decided to make one final attempt to save it: I took it out of its pot, gently spread its roots, planted it in a much larger wooden tub, replaced the soil, watered it...and waited patiently. This afternoon I discovered that it finally had begun to bud -- my precious tree was still alive after all!

Nature always reminds us whenever we find ourselves withering, that perhaps what's needed is to get ourselves out of rut we're in, maybe this place we've outgrown, and find somewhere else we can spread our roots and thrive again. There are never any guarantees, of course, so it requires tremendous courage to change and seek a better place in the sun. But if we know ourselves, understand where we've been and have an idea of where we want to go, there's a good chance we'll make it. Otherwise, if we decide to stay where we are and hope that everything around us changes instead, then we'd be betting on things we can't control.

Even tenacious oak trees, after all -- if they're planted in the wrong soil or subjected to harmful elements -- can waste away. The key is to pay attention always, so you know if you're standing still -- or simply still standing.

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.

GETTING READY FOR SUMMER

Although Summer won't offically be here until later in June, the temperatures this past weekend were high enough to remind me of what I'm not looking forward to. Still it was perfect weather to attend this year's Spring Garden Show at the South Coast Plaza in Costa Mesa -- warm but ever-so-slightly breezy, with a bit of a chill at night.

(By the way, I cannot quite explain how glorious to me this is, the concept of a garden show being held at one of the best shopping malls in the country. Why, I almost cannot breathe just thinking about it.)

This is one show I don't ever miss, so I already knew which vendors would be setting up shop again. I also decided to take a more focused approach this year and allowed myself to purchase only a few plants, just enough for me to carry without assistance. With extraordinary self-control, I reminded myself at each stall throughout all three floors that I was only going to pick up a new geranium plant and maybe my last Japanese maple tree each time I was tempted to pick up anything else.

I did just that -- it really does pay to have a shopping list. I walked out with two small pots of the newly-introduced Sweet Heidy geranium from Geraniaceae and a Japanese Sunrise acer palmatum tree. (Okay, I admit I yanked my husband out of the bookstore to help me bring it back to the car -- but mostly it was because I wanted to talk him into buying one of the gorgeous troughs constructed of heart redwood salvaged from a late-19th century San Francisco bathhouse. But because they were priced from $250 to $350 -- even if they were offering free shipping -- I knew immediately from the look in his face that talking wasn't going to do me any good. Maybe I should have promised sex instead.)

And as I assured the friendly folks at Mountain Maples (who had welcomed me as one of "their people") that I was going to see them again next year, I envisioned perfect new homes for my new plants. The next day I spent the entire afternoon moving around pots and uprooting plants in anticipation of another patio garden redesign (my husband's already nervous about what I'm going to ask him to do), and by the time the sun set, I was pleased. We're going to have a little shady, fragrant spot to take refuge in when the temperatures really begin to soar. I think we might even be almost ready for Summer.

*"Sweet Heidy" geranium copyright photo © Marco van Noort
*Photo of "Pacific Sunrise" acer palmatum courtesy of Mountain Maples

THE LIFE OF PLANTS

SCENE FROM YET ANOTHER SATURDAY AFTERNOON...

Me: Hon, when you go to Costco later, can you please get me a box of large trash bags?

He: (Stepping outside, to where I am currently kneeling in front of what was once a vigorous lavender bush.) Do you need it now na ba?

Me: Yeah. I need to cut this down. It's dead.

He: Oh really? It is? (Sarcasm delivered with annoying smirk.) I thought lavender was impossible to kill.

Me: Hey, I didn't do anything to it (gives him nasty look). The plant behind it grew so big that it blocked the sun. Lavender needs lots of sun, but this one was always in the shade. So it died. I guess I wasn't paying enough attention so I didn't get to move it in time.

See, this is why I think gardening is one of the best things I've learned to do. Strangely enough, plants have taught me so much about living (as a human being, that is). For instance, some plants thrive in full sunlight, others in deep shade. Neither one is better than the other, but what's important is that each receives what it needs in order to grow. If its environment is somehow altered, it doesn't need to stay where it's always been just because that's where it once belonged; in fact, doing so would only cause its deterioration or demise. What's best would be to move it away to where conditions are ideal or at least better matched to its needs. I think we can all think of a few different ways we can translate this to our own lives.

Oh -- and in case you're curious -- I just planted a beautiful fern in the newly-empty spot. It doesn't mind being overshadowed, you see, in fact it prefers to brighten up dark places. So not like my poor lavender friend, which is now making my trash bin smell slightly sweeter and fresher than it ever has been.

I can't believe I actually killed lavender, I can hear all gardeners laughing and mocking me now.

IT'S NOT EASY BEING GREEN

Those who know what my father does for a living assume (rather logically, I admit) that our home is a masterfully landscaped paradise, a showcase of all his best and brightest ideas.

But they would be wrong. So completely, utterly, not-even-close-to-the-ballpark wrong.

Our home, for as long as I can remember, has always been a jungle. It's not a house merely surrounded by trees and plants, it's been long swallowed up by them. I no longer remember what its basic structure looks like; old pictures now fill in the gaps of my memories. One of my favorite features of my childhood home is one I haven't seen since I was a toddler (and barely, even then): arranged in a floating pattern on the front wall are square blocks, each inscribed with a character of the pre-hispanic Tagalog alphabet. I must remember to ask my father which letters he selected and why, since I'm pretty sure we don't have all 17 of them displayed. And now that I think about it, I need to find out why he chose the design motif at all -- was it in honor of his father, my lolo, who was a Tagalog poet? Or was it simply an aesthetic decision?

While I was growing up, before I became truly interested (almost obsessed, really) in plants and horticulture, my surroundings looked nothing more than masses of leaves obstructing the view beyond the walls. But now that I've become the kind of person who visits garden nurseries in the weekends the same way I trawl through malls, I can appreciate the extraordinary variety of plants that my dad still brings home regularly. I see each plant as distinctly as I would every heartbreakingly gorgeous pair of shoes displayed at Barney's, and I have to resist the urge to bring a few cuttings back here with me lest I be detained and fined at LAX.

My dad is eccentric in the way most artists tend to be, and he doesn't much care for what people might say about him. And although I sometimes shake my head when he explains his decisions, at times I am simply floored. For instance, if anyone remembers Makati in the '70s and can still visualize the row of trees that dotted the center of EDSA, it might be interesting to know that we nurtured their mother tree, from which they all sprung, right in front of our house in between the front and side gates. The same tree that I used to think simply took up too much space and hid even more of the house, to me suddenly represented history, a remembrance of when the city I grew up in was not yet a harsh concrete jungle.