...All in a Row (Tous dans une rangée)

Marie, Marie tout à fait contrairement, 

comment votre jardin se développe-t-il?

Regardless of what comes last (pretty maidens, cowslips, ladybells or what have you), they, along with the silver bells and shells, were placed in an orderly fashion, all in a row. 

This was no English garden. 

(Perhaps yet another reason why Mary was considered contrary). If she was at all obsessed with order, then le jardin de Marie was un jardin à la française, (a French garden), which according to wikipedia is "a style of garden based on symmetry and the principle of imposing order over nature." The gardens of Château de Villandry (a French castle built in the Loire Valley of France during the Renaissance) are a good example.

Château de Villandry 

I, by contrast, embrace the seemingly disorderliness (perhaps a better word is the "whimsicality") of an English garden. A fellow garden blogger described them as looking "like someone went out and threw a huge bunch of seeds in the air and let them grow where they may." That's exactly what I did with my (second?) garden here in our Rockridge home. 


A little history: soon after we moved in, we dug up a water-thirsty lawn and tried to keep the grass at bay for the next few years. When we finally thought we had it under control, I broadcast a bunch of drought-tolerant California wild flower seeds and waited. That was in the early spring of 2004. Funny how like-flowers clumped together (I guess they worked it out among themselves underground before emerging) because by that summer, I had a patch of yellow Rudbekia (Black-Eyed Susan) in one clump, blue asters in another, California poppies in yet another, and several others that I could not name, each emerging together in their own space around the yard. 

Constructing our sandstone path,
Autumn 2004

Guided by the spaces around the flowers, we put in a meandering path made of sandstone and planted moss in between. I added a few favorites to the yard (Echinacea or Purple Coneflowers; and iris, hyacinth, tulip, & daffodil bulbs) and threw in a few potted specials on sale at the neighborhood Long's Drug store (may it RIP).  In an attempt to recapture the gardens of our youth, we put in a lilac bush in one corner. (To both Alec and I, spring is synonymous with lilacs in bloom). Our next door neighbor's Cala Lilies sprung up there, too. And it seemed like a good idea at the time, my putting in a border of strawberries. I alternated a wild variety with an everbearing one that would yield edible fruit. (Another neighbor warned me not to. I should have listened. I'll reveal why at a later time).  

Our (second?) front yard garden, circa Summer 2005

The remaining empty patches around the yard were filled with bark mulch and voilà! By the following summer we had a small English garden on Lawton Street. It was a delightful summer and summers are long in Northern California.This was the garden which drew compliments. And it was pretty.


Maintenance was fairly easy, then. But the winter brought rain and cold and the flowers and blooms all faded. By February, when generally the rains stop and it begins to warm up as well, the weeds and "thugs" begin to arrive and it requires effort to keep them from overtaking everything.  That effort presumes that I am able to be attentive to the garden. 

The state of my garden is a pretty good indicator of the state of my peace of mind (or lack thereof). Up until recently, I had not paid much attention to the garden. I'd walk past it daily but turn a blind eye to the overgrowth and results of neglect. In my opening blog, I blamed it on "an 80 mile round-trip job commute that sucked the life energy from me." The commute is an easy scapegoat. The truth is harder to articulate. 


Somehow, over the past several years, I'd gotten lost in the academic life of a researcher, pursuing a reward that has lost its shimmer. At the end of the day, after the papers are published, the grant applications submitted, the conference presentations made, is there a there, there? Who is touched by what I do? Where is the impact of my work, the fruits of my labor? Where am I doing good in the world? 


I once had a life where the impact of my work was immediate. I delivered babies, resuscitated a dying child, counseled an alcoholic, befriended an agoraphobic. I lived on the Navajo Reservation in Arizona and served the community as their family physician. And my garden thrived there. 


Early in my life as a researcher, I studied ethical issues surrounding death and dying. I was humbled to be present and witness the full experience of dying among the ten individuals diagnosed with serious and eventually fatal illnesses who agreed to be research participants and allow me to observe their last journey for my first ethnographic study. (I share my reflections on this project here and here.)



But somewhere along the process, I ceased having direct contact with patients and research participants. Instead I analyzed surveys and focus groups, mined data and text, and crunched numbers. I mastered statistics and my subjects became data points. Imposing order over nature, I lost my sense of purpose. Don't get me wrong, I love how my thinking has been sharpened through the many research methods I have mastered. But to what purpose? Another publication? Another rung up the academic ladder? 



Last year, May of 2010, I hit a wall. At my lowest point, I gave myself a year to be in a new place, mentally, spiritually, professionally ... (and now horticulturally!) I created a plan and I called it my Journey to Eden. (I look forward to sharing the details of that plan). The year has arrived and next month, I return to the life of a clinician. The journey has returned me to my garden and to a new peace of mind.