LILACS

The rice is all planted, the grandmas are out in the paddies, planting the green shoots by hand in places the machines missed, and likely recalling the unbelievable ago, when entire mountainsides were planted by hand.

Out in the same morning, watering some seedling flats, I am inspired with the fragrance of the blooming lilac and swirled into my own past, just standing there; it makes a tree of me.

There is love in the scent of lilacs; a sweet perfume that knew me kindly, long before I came to be. I get to enjoy Springly nuances from other vegetation as well, the way life moves with chlorophyll. They speak in their own quiet languages, but we communicate; we definitely communicate.

I have learned how important water is to ginger; turnips also request water at certain times, kohlrabi is fussy about the tenderness of the soil, broccoli and pepper have opinions about temperature, and so on. In their gentle way, they help diminish the number of things I'm not sure of.

WIMPY CUKES

Do you think I'm abusing my tomatoes? I don't mean to, I'm a nice guy most of the time, pretty much of the alternative school when it comes to plant discipline; there's just something in the way they seem to look at you with those flowery eyes, but sometimes you have to put your green thumb down...

A couple of evenings ago I put my tomato seedlings outside on the deck to acclimate them to the kind of weather they’re going to grow up in, and its been so cold these evenings - even in late April - that before going off to the big city, when I went outside into a morning just short of frost to water them they were hunched over like skinny green orphans, clutching a few raggedy leaves about their stemmy frames, straight out of Dickens, Olivers hoping for another portion, a brighter sun, a warmer day, a nicer venue... Is this plant abuse? If I don't bring them in tonight... but once they begin living with me, where will it all end? Can you evict succulents? Orphan tomatoes? Are there homeless vegetables?

And my goya plants too, which are most at home in sunny and toasty Okinawa and have only recently become available here in seedling form-- I got two of those in pots the other day and perhaps there's nothing more pathetic in the plant world than a couple of goya seedlings huddling together and shivering in the cold of a northerly mountain spring morning; even the tomatoes aren't as bad, hunched out there now out on the deck as they are, together with the quivering cukes, all hunkered together in the merciless chill wind; will it make them stronger or will it make them compost?

I believe that plants should be allowed to live their own lives as they see fit, within the gardening parameters. We get along; some of my best friends are spinach. But at some point, unless you want wimpy cucumbers you have to assert yourself, no more mister nice guy, say Stop your whining and buck up, stand tall, stick those stems out, spread those leaves, let's see some green pride! But then you can get too militaristic about it, that old drill regimen clicks its heels once more in a new guise, like it has so often in history, catching whole generations of humans by surprise and it can do so again, starting right here with tomatoes and who knows where it will end.

So I finally gave in and brought the tomatoes and their fellow malcontents inside, where I can’t help but feel they're smirking over there in that warm corner. I just hope I'll be running things this year, gardenwise. Today the garden, tomorrow you just never know.

A growing list of inspiring links on Ken Elwood's epic links page...

PLANT INFORMATION ONLINE

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NOVEMBER NANTEN

Nandina domestica

FAR BEYOND MAJESTY

Late afternoon is the time of sky when the light is entering its golden phase, when the trees and grasses shine undaunted into the face of the sun, as if to say, in strong green words: I am a masterpiece. There is a great and unsung pride manifest in what we are pleased to think of as mere vegetation.

Then as sunset nears, all the air itself realizes the transition and rises over the sun-warmed lake, as the cooler mountain air floods down in replacement; the whole mountain, lit aslant by the hovering sun, becomes the bed of a vast river of cool air, rushing down in cosmic obligation. To sit in that river, feel that flood, after splitting firewood in the hot sun for two hours, is like whitewatering the grand canyon while sitting still, all in the country of the soul...

Those same dark leaves lift into paleness at the first touch of the downmountain winds and gleam white in the setting sun - clearly they have an old local relationship - they carry their vastness in their seeds...

The repose of the mountains in such settings as this, shaded green, gray and black in the summer evening sun and breeze, is often described as 'majestic,' but there is more in those ancient faces than aristocracy can ever aspire to; it's a matter of interaction with eternity, not immediate lineage or ambition.

Then when all the air is balanced at last, from out of the overmountain light come galleons of windblown pink clouds, sailing over the mountains as slowly and stately as on a tropical lagoon, wending across the calm of the sky toward unknown shores...

And when all up there is yet light, as the earth below grows dark and cool, the dragonflies enjoy the same calm air, their dashing silhouettes clearly visible -- way up in that silence they zig and zag in the way of their kind on glassine wings, like thoughts in a blue mind, with no aim but to be...

Then comes the full moon, laying her tapestry of light over the darkling land, revealing lineaments we are blind to in the day... who has not stood out in that vapor of silver, lain over all with the touch of a goddess, and not grown thereby?

We can do no better in our dreams...