Desire for
I've become obsessed with the tiny parts of plants. Particularly in nodes of transition, where leaves and petals uncurl from pods and stalks. They come so perfectly, insistently, and in miniature of their future selves. Like embryos before me. I imagine the cut halves of an onion, the slender green shoots which emerge from their centers, formed as you forget them on the shelf. Never mind your plans for them.
Newly interesting are the plants which clearly show how leaves became flowers. The absolute relation of shape, color, and tendency which bridges the structural gap. Think poinsettias, their red petals descending gently to purple-brown till green and unabashedly leaf: practically no separation without color. My uncle John couldn't tell you any; colorblind to shades of red and green, what he sees is a mystery to me but I almost envy him the peripheral knowledge he gains. Robbed of one sense, gifted another. He notices detail.
These kinds of visually mutative plants I used to dislike for their "monotone". Their variety escaped me. I used to focus on blooms. I bought a lot of cut flowers. Now I have a small but real garden. Let me tell you, most plants are not proportionally flower-heavy. Especially if you see them all the time, in all their states, in all weathers.
I planted roses a year ago now. At first, they were brown sticks. After two weeks of watering the sticks, I doubted they would ever even be green, much less produce a flower. But slowly, slowly, then with explosive effort they grew, branching into reddish leaves, which brightened to green, and finally a few tall and waving stalks with buds. The color of the flower seemed to creep out, slowly and with effort, then one day became an open burst. It wasn't quite the color I expected, either, lighter, more vibrant, more tender and beautiful than I could have guessed given its origins.
I'd thought I might cut the flowers, originally, while planting, but after so many months I could no sooner cut off my leg than one of these precious things. I let each die slowly on the plant before removing it as I had been taught.
It's substantial, to me, then, seeing this spring ten buds where last year there were one, two at a time tops. The roses were the first to grow after frost, I think, and they've dwarfed their prevoius selves by twice at least. They grow directly into the sun, taller and taller all the time, stronger, yet more delicately shaped it seems. I can't stop watching them.
That's the thing about having a lot of different plants. There is always so much to look at. I can get into one thing, only to be distracted by another tomorrow. It is, as I have told Meghan and some others, a good thing that I have so many to fuss over. There's only so much pruning and playing a plant needs. Mostly they just want to be left alone, which I can understand.
My grand attempt is to create a system, then, which does its best when left to its own devices. I like minimal effort, concentrated to the best effect. I therefore love perennial plants, especially nice little spreading flowers, stately ferns, dripping-leaf climbers. I give them lots of room and places to settle in. I know I only rent, that maybe I'll only enjoy them once or twice more at best. But I like the practice, and the idea of shaping a living space. I like seeing which plants like which spots, trying to figure out why, trying to create a three-dimensional field. Sometimes I just sit for hours looking, thinking, eventually not thinking. I want what's needed to come to me, and usually it does, eventually, arriving as some notion of what could bring the experience to a new level of interest. More yellow. More silver leaves. More aromas. More things you want to touch. It changes over time, as designs should. I love the flexibility.
From Ruthie's oxalis plants, which I cut, repotted and planted new. These are one month old.
Speaking of flexibility. It's a virtue to heed. Today is Memorial Day. It's the third day in a three-day weekend stifled by heat. Not sunny as the last two, but interspersed with a cool breeze and the hint of another washing rain. Mediating forces are stirring, I swear. Hot and cool air rising to meet each other in a column, a spiraling thick storm of sweeping change. Not to push a point but things are electric these days.
Newly interesting are the plants which clearly show how leaves became flowers. The absolute relation of shape, color, and tendency which bridges the structural gap. Think poinsettias, their red petals descending gently to purple-brown till green and unabashedly leaf: practically no separation without color. My uncle John couldn't tell you any; colorblind to shades of red and green, what he sees is a mystery to me but I almost envy him the peripheral knowledge he gains. Robbed of one sense, gifted another. He notices detail.
These kinds of visually mutative plants I used to dislike for their "monotone". Their variety escaped me. I used to focus on blooms. I bought a lot of cut flowers. Now I have a small but real garden. Let me tell you, most plants are not proportionally flower-heavy. Especially if you see them all the time, in all their states, in all weathers.
I planted roses a year ago now. At first, they were brown sticks. After two weeks of watering the sticks, I doubted they would ever even be green, much less produce a flower. But slowly, slowly, then with explosive effort they grew, branching into reddish leaves, which brightened to green, and finally a few tall and waving stalks with buds. The color of the flower seemed to creep out, slowly and with effort, then one day became an open burst. It wasn't quite the color I expected, either, lighter, more vibrant, more tender and beautiful than I could have guessed given its origins.
I'd thought I might cut the flowers, originally, while planting, but after so many months I could no sooner cut off my leg than one of these precious things. I let each die slowly on the plant before removing it as I had been taught.
It's substantial, to me, then, seeing this spring ten buds where last year there were one, two at a time tops. The roses were the first to grow after frost, I think, and they've dwarfed their prevoius selves by twice at least. They grow directly into the sun, taller and taller all the time, stronger, yet more delicately shaped it seems. I can't stop watching them.
That's the thing about having a lot of different plants. There is always so much to look at. I can get into one thing, only to be distracted by another tomorrow. It is, as I have told Meghan and some others, a good thing that I have so many to fuss over. There's only so much pruning and playing a plant needs. Mostly they just want to be left alone, which I can understand.
My grand attempt is to create a system, then, which does its best when left to its own devices. I like minimal effort, concentrated to the best effect. I therefore love perennial plants, especially nice little spreading flowers, stately ferns, dripping-leaf climbers. I give them lots of room and places to settle in. I know I only rent, that maybe I'll only enjoy them once or twice more at best. But I like the practice, and the idea of shaping a living space. I like seeing which plants like which spots, trying to figure out why, trying to create a three-dimensional field. Sometimes I just sit for hours looking, thinking, eventually not thinking. I want what's needed to come to me, and usually it does, eventually, arriving as some notion of what could bring the experience to a new level of interest. More yellow. More silver leaves. More aromas. More things you want to touch. It changes over time, as designs should. I love the flexibility.
From Ruthie's oxalis plants, which I cut, repotted and planted new. These are one month old.
Speaking of flexibility. It's a virtue to heed. Today is Memorial Day. It's the third day in a three-day weekend stifled by heat. Not sunny as the last two, but interspersed with a cool breeze and the hint of another washing rain. Mediating forces are stirring, I swear. Hot and cool air rising to meet each other in a column, a spiraling thick storm of sweeping change. Not to push a point but things are electric these days.