What Remains

“Last Summer in the Garden”
by Benjamin Alire Sáenz

I am remembering how I used to wake in the mornings
   and step out
Into my backyard, coffee cup in hand.
I am remembering how
I would wander around in a sleepy stupor,
   the cool of the morning grass

On my bare feet, the awe of the new day
   making me forget about

The word exile. I keep dreaming the desert willow,
   the sweet acacia,

The honey mesquite, the purple sage,
   the cow’s tongue cactus that had

Become as tall as a tree.

                                         God, I loved that garden, but

It’s no longer mine. It’s not true to say it’s gone.
It’s just that
I can’t set foot on it any longer. It’s cruel,
   this business of exile...


                                I can never go back to that house

Where I lived for so many years... I was

The god of the garden. I was the planter,
   the giver and taker of life.

This year, in early June, the front yard was
   a blanket of orange blossoms

And the paloverdes were exploding
   in yellow blooms that were

As fragile and tender as my boyhood.
I was not there to see the garden
In its fullness, though I saw the entire scene
   as a photograph
I stole from my memory...

                     I have spent my last summer in the garden...
But when we leave the garden,
   always we carry something with us,

A fragment of our innocent selves.
There is a freedom in living

Somewhere east of Eden. We all want to taste
   the fruit from the tree
Of knowledge. I’m thinking that, in the end, Adam and Eve

Made their peace with exile.

                       And I can make my peace with mine.


 ❧ ❧ ❧

This poem has haunted me for the past year and a half, as I anticipated leaving my garden. Then it seemed a long way off; but I knew deep down that it wasn't. Today I have less than four days left until the garden is no longer mine. And then I will begin making my peace with exile. Today, though, I am thinking about what remains. I am thinking about what I will carry with me.

When I began the resurrection of Mary Minges' garden, I knew nothing of gardening. I knew plenty about heartache, though, and I was to discover that gardening, restoration, and writing can heal heartache. From the first step of restoring the garden﹣pulling bag upon bag of English ivy﹣I began my education, with the garden as teacher. Here are some of the lessons I have learned about gardening and life over the last five years.


Lessons from the Garden

Ivy smothers. Ripping it out is empowering, and bulbs you didn’t know were there are set free to bloom again.

Things die. Plants, love, friendship. We aren’t always ready. We can’t stop it.

The soil can be replanted. It’s usually best to amend it first. And that takes work; stinky work sometimes. Manure smells.

Before replanting in a spot where something died, let the ground lie fallow. Give it time to soak up the nutrients you amended it with.

It’s fun, maybe even essential, when replanting an area, to try something new. If a plant didn’t work in the spot, don’t plant the same old thing.

Don’t look too far ahead, it’s overwhelming. Just begin it. Pick one little corner of the overgrown, neglected garden; grab one vine and pull. Then one more. One step at time usually gets the job done. If you want to build a patio, but can’t imagine that you will be able to, just start it. Envision the completed project and pick up your shovel. You don’t have to be able to imagine every step along the journey.

If something beautiful strikes your fancy, but you don’t really know what you will do with it, get it! Church windows can always be planted in the garden. Even croquet stakes can be repurposed. You won’t be disappointed.

You have to pull the dying annuals, even if they still look pretty good, so you can plant the new season ones. Ripping up what is okay, but not great, is emotionally hard; do it anyway.

You don’t always know right off what to plant in an area. You can either stick something in and hope it’s the right thing, or you can wait and watch for a vision to come. It will.

If you pick the wrong thing for a spot, it’s never too late to remove it and try again. If the roots have taken hold, though, it doesn’t come out easily.

If you cut off the top of an unwanted holly bush, but don’t dig out the roots (which may require a chain saw), the bush will keep sprouting back. You will spend a lot of time, year after year, clipping unwanted sprouts. Best to just dig deep and get it out.

Pulling weeds, pulling expiring annuals and perennials, removing dead leaves is freeing.  Making space for what’s to come.

If you want a banana tree, plant a banana tree. Don’t listen to the naysayers. Listen to your own heart. You can hear it best.

One woman’s weeds are another woman’s love. Violets. Passion flower. Those purple things that bloom when everything else is done. Don’t reject them just because they refuse to stay in the box.

You can’t just sit back and watch, and expect the garden to flourish. You have take care of it.

If you feed the birds, they will come. All you need is a feeder. Or a large square coffee table with cushions around it.

Don’t just do something, sit there. Don’t just plant or weed and walk away. Stay there. Sit a spell. Listen. Examine. Keep your camera in your pocket.

When it’s time to leave the garden, know that you have done a wonderful thing. You planted a little corner of beauty in the world. You have nourished the child and loved it well, and now it’s time to let it go.

                              ❧ ❧ ❧

Gardens are therapists, they heal your soul.
Gardens are doctors, they mend your heart.
Gardens are good friends, they are a mirror of your being.
Gardens are teachers, they expand your knowledge.
Gardens are ministers, they show you the One Who is More.
Gardens are children, they reflect your nurturing.
Gardens love you back.

What remains is thousands of photographs; one hundred blog posts; a hundred thousand words; a restored garden; and me.