My Garden Life – Establishing roots and letting things grow

New places, unfamiliar surroundings or a different environment can often translate into new beginnings and a new starting-off point, offering a fresh perspective. As custodian and steward of a small acreage In my new garden space, I not only feel in my element, and somewhat privileged, but also overwhelmed at the size and space, the wildness and the work required to keep things in order and under control.

While I am eager and curious for the challenges of a new journey of discovery, to learn what’s here, what’s growing, what this place is about, to acquaint to this new sense of place, I realize it requires a certain level of patience. The spring and summer have meant a wait-and-see approach mostly to see how the garden unfolds, to simply to listen for now, to hear its message, learn its needs, before leaping too enthusiastically into its thrust.

It seems a strange notion to have a garden, a sizable one at that, but not at first know what’s actually here, realizing it used to be someone’s else garden, someone else’s dream and ideas, but past weeks have revealed much. It’s been an odd process in many ways, the waiting, anxious yet excited, not quite knowing what the growing season would produce, or where it would produce it, where plans to develop and change the garden both overwhelm and ensure giddy excitement as I embark as tamer of the land, just one of many roles for this large, rambling wild space.

Sumersweet shrub

As I explore the tapestry and the diversity, learning what’s here, what’s not, and what ought to be, (pleased to see some native species, less enthused with invasives and aggressive invaders), there is a tendency to yank out anything that looks remotely weed-like, only to stop myself, conditioned now to leave what’s growing, unless

Butterfly weed

I’m really sure i’s unwanted. It’s been a strange concept, the not knowing what’s growing, what shapes the garden, and it therefore stymied planning for a while until more was revealed, all while I learn about different soil types, different growing conditions, as well as its unique characteristics and microclimates.

A patient case of letting things grow and develop, familiarizing with unrecognizable foliage, and reminding one self that some of the nicest native perennials do indeed look like scruffy weeds, at least until they mature and bloom, and should therefore not prematurely be pulled out. It’s been tough not to decide to simply dig everything out and start again, where I tell myself to work with what I have, relocate it or remove it, add to it, embellish it, but embrace what is an absolutely fantastic foundation, even when the strangest combinations of plants are found growing together, or jarring colour schemes simply don’t work.

This little parcel of land, a little undulating and uneven in places, brings a few big mature trees, maples to beautifully shade on the hottest summer days, a younger woodland to watch grow and develop, a glorious meadowland of wild grasses and wild flowers, perennials and shrubbery, and park-like lawn (enough to enjoy, but enough to reduce, eventually), a small orchard, as well as an enchanting woodland place, a secret grove of sorts. And just beyond, a ridge with endless rural views of some place beyond this place, far away and distant, a place to wonder about perhaps.

One of several large smoke bushes, each with a slightly different hue

There have been frequent surprises, unexpected patches of iris blooming in an odd location, which I find oddly pleasing, given I have no fondness for iris. A large rambling area of rugosa roses that come with a gazillion horrid thorns, yet offer the prettiest blooms and sweetest fragrance in return, as they joyfully take over.

Daylilies galore

There are stands of spring-flowering lilacs, summer-flowering shrubs and a few breathtaking smoke bushes, perennials galore – and so many weeds, many pretty in bloom. Day lilies, ditch lilies, phlox and sweet pea grow randomly as if naturalized, an odd sight among natural meadow growth where common milkweed reigns.

Phlox

I’ve yearned to be able to garden on this scale again, to grab onto it and hold it tight: it was the goal, deliberate anticipation, enchanted by surprises already discovered, in awe of what’s to come, along with the peace, tranquility and simplicity found here. Surrounded on the periphery (comfortingly enveloped) by farmland, lake land and an abundance of old-growth generational maples, the picture more than delights the heart, nourishes the soul, reignites the senses, indulging the mind, as I re-connect with the earth, in touch with nature, in a place very new to me, yet I felt drawn here, as if I may have always belonged.

Blooming hosta

Taking on a garden six times the size of my last garden wasn’t done in a moment of madness, or perhaps it was, but my last garden became too small too quickly, lacking scope and inspiration, and given the increasingly busy, noisy urban neighbourhood, brought ever-increasing limitations and interference, robbing all enjoyment. The thought of rural acreage only enchants and excites, where the sky, or the acres, is the limit, where the potential to dream, to spread one’s wings, inhaling deeply, exhaling slowing, and with mindful purpose and carefree thoughts, has become a daily way of life.

– A gardener all her adult life, and most of her childhood, Sharon Harrison blames her parents for this predicament, both of whom are life-long gardeners and growers of good things, nonetheless grateful for the gardening genes, and the growing passion. While she has written on countless topics over many years for numerous publications and media, her heart remains rooted in her Prince Edward County garden as a grower of beautiful things, inspired and influenced by nature, wildlife, the land and the fragility of environment. –