Insomnia

I drift awake and see a soft light at the window.  It could be the rising sun, but this late in the year, it is more likely to be the neighbor's motion detector, filtered by the trees.

The clock says 5:30, too early for sunrise.  A soft breeze blows the shadows around the porch.  The garden beckons me, whispering that the darkness grows longer with each passing day.

If it were daylight, I could sprinkle rainwater on what remains of the hostas.  I could rake the leaves from the pavement to the compost pile.  But I spend the daylight hours at my desk, fiddling with a computer, writing with a pencil.  By the time I drive home, it is dark.

I wait for the sun.  The hollow sound of the highway is interrupted by the rattle of the refrigerator.  The furnace comes on in a soft hush.  And throughout the house, there is a silent sound of doors closing.

Calculations

It has been warm and dry throughout the summer and fall, long months with little rain.  

The drought in August lasted for weeks.  There was not much breeze and the air felt hot and dry.  Lawns were brittle and brown.  Trees began to lose their leaves.


Early one morning in September, the rising sun illuminated a cloud, peachy pink against a clear blue sky.

Pink cloud in morning,

Sailor's warning

Later that day, it started to rain, a gentle soft rain, that soaked easily into the soil.  The slow and easy shower lasted all afternoon and night.  In the morning at first light, I walked to the backyard to check the rain gauge.  Over two inches of rain!  The path felt soft beneath my feet, and there were no puddles of standing water.  Even the rain garden looked empty.


By my calculation, 18,000 gallons of water had fallen on my yard.  Where could the water have gone?  The rain barrels were full, but they hold less than 150 gallons.  It wasn't run-off -- my garden is below the grade of my neighbors.


The rain continued, firmer now, more insistent.  By the end of the workday, the rain gauge indicated that two more inches had fallen.  And still there were no pools of water, even in the rain garden. 


Now it was raining steady and hard.  Three inches more fell overnight.  By morning, there were puddles along the path and the rain garden was a pond.


But by the time I returned home from work, the water had disappeared.


What happened to all that water?  65,000 gallons had fallen onto my yard, perhaps more draining from the surrounding yards.


The rain garden is designed to store 7,000 gallons.  And the compost spread throughout the garden aborbs water like a sponge.  The remainder must have been absorbed by the trees and shrubs.

I googled the water storage capacity of trees, but it was difficult to understand the articles in the academic journals.  And the capacity differs, depending on the tree.  I was too impatient to complete the research.  

Trees are giant holding tanks.  Our oak canopy can store a many gallons of water, while the understory trees and shrubs assist.  We'll let it go that that.

My small yard of 1/3 acre can process 65,000 gallons of water rather handily.


I am proud of my garden.  You go, girl.

.

Perfection

In some gardens, the salvias are tidy bouquets of blooms.  Asters and coneflowers are properly spaced.  And monarda is forbidden to wander about.

In some gardens, the honeysuckle is trained on a trellis and the basil is never allowed to flower.

But in my garden, an unruly brush pile in the far corner shelters songirds and small mammals from winter winds. 


My compost pile is possibly the largest in Durham County, since the municipal facility spontaneously combusted and was closed down.

Near the street, the orange daylilies overrun the blue Stokes aster, and they in turn are smothered by the rampant excesses of the purple passionvine.

Explosions of flowers provide nectar and pollen to feed the bees and butterflies, while the coreopsis and sunflowers produce abundant seeds for the birds. 

The garden is home and food and shelter for many creatures, but its lack of discipline ensures that it will never be the centerfold in a garden magazine.


Yet perfection extracts a heavy price.

This morning, I woke before dawn, thinking about her mother. 

How she sifted through the words and scanned the faces of everyone at the funeral, to find even a single friend, someone who had known and appreciated her daughter, a promising new professor at an elite university, who died alone in her apartment from complications from anorexia.

The eulogists from the faculty spoke about her brilliant mind, her preparedness, her punctuality.

Her thoughtfulness at someone's baby shower.

Then her brother spoke about her love of fashion, her appreciation of fashion magazines, of styles and trends, her joy in lovely things.

She and I had never spoken and I had only seen her twice at the university.  She had been at the snack bar, her back to me, looking over the M&M's and the cheese crackers, but while I was making my purchase, she stepped silently away. 

I barely remember the beautiful clothes on her impossibly thin frame.

.

Goodbye

The first frost is expected tonight.  Time to say goodbye to my garden pals.


The impatiens planted themselves in many areas of the garden, and in almost every container.   I neglect them terribly because they are not native, but on their last day, I regret the passing of their pink cheerfulness.

The foliage of the beautyberry bushes (Callicarpa americana) will die tonight, but the magenta fruit will persist, feeding the robins and the mockingbirds until Christmas.

In the rain garden, a few remaining flowers of the green headed coneflower thrive in the rich soil.

The purple salvia surprised me by coming back this year, and then by blooming all summer long under the passionvine.  Ragged by November, this plant is loved by bees.

Scorpion weed (Phacelia bipinnatifida) was a new native for me this year.   Here it is still dewy from yesterday's rain.

As I checked the spelling of its Latin name, I just read that this plant can cause a rash, similar to poison ivy.  It is planted beside the carport but has not caused a problem.


The woodbine forms a blue-green groundcover under the oaks.  If given sufficient light, it colors beautifully in the autumn.

Some plants are blooming out of cycle.  Two pink azalea flowers

And a cluster of white abelia flowers are surprises in November.

The lantana was stunning this year, and yet well behaved.  Today will be its last day.  Come back next year, please!

Goodbye my friends.

Time

Early morning in November and the sky is deep blue with a sliver of moon. I step out of the house and close the door firmly, turning the key in the lock.


Morning is silent and cold. The wrens, cardinals and mockingbirds wait for sunrise to call them from their hidden nighttime places. I walk into the garden where a few crickets chirp in deep voices, but one is a soprano, rare so late in the season.

Does he know that autumn comes late this year? Does he fear the first frost?


Fear and dread are for other creatures,

those who created the calendar,

and named the seasons and the months,

parceling time into days,

each day with precisely 24 hours,

each hour with 60 minutes,

each minute with 60 seconds.

For the cricket, there is no time. Life is a river with no beginning or end.


Sunrise to sunset, morning to night. He flows with the rhythm of nature, the sun and the moon.


Needless of haste and free of ambition, of productivity, of progress, he thinks nothing of personal achievement. He needs no precision.

 
 
With no clock to chime the hours


There is only now.



.