Tending to a Garden and a Life
By Irene Virag
The bed where my Casa Blanca lilies flourish turned into a metropolis last year, and I had to divide the clumps this season. I had no place in my crowded garden for the unearthed plants and so I packed them off to readers. It was a way of saying thank you to people who sustained me. Heres something from my garden, I was telling them. Heres something from my life."
The thought reinforced the way my garden and my life are entwined. Its always been that way ever since the first seedling went into the garden that used to be the middle of my front lawn. My garden is 5 years old. Im in my fifth year as a cancer survivor. Its no coincidence. I planted the garden when I was undergoing chemotherapy.
Every season since, I have found sanctuary in the place my husband and I call the Garden of Health and Joy. The garden has lived up to its name, and I have written often of my adventures within its boundaries. Now as I snip basil for dinner or cut a bouquet of roses or make room for a new vine called Cobea, I cant help thinking about where I am in life and where my garden is. Five years after a wild seed changed my life, my garden needs a little tweaking and so do I.
Im not talking radical change. My soil is healthy and so, basically, am I. All was fine with my yearly mammogram and sonogram and I see my oncologist every three months. I love telling people Im a five-year survivor. Its a yardstick of sorts.
You could say my garden is lush. It should be. For five years, its been getting plenty of sun and ample water and lots of compost. You could even say its voluptuous. I like the sound of that in his wilder moments, my husband says it about me.
But you could also say my garden is just a smidgen overgrown. As is more often than not the case, horticulture is imitating life. My garden is on the verge of growing out of bounds. Im stressed, caught up in a new project. And higher powers are relocating our workstations for reasons that are difficult for the rest of us to discern. Im adrift in a sea of boxes waiting to be moved. Its a little like the garden. I like order. And I dont know where everything is.
I cant help thinking that if I can get the garden into better shape, I can do the same thing for myself. But its not a case of mere maintenance the gym for me and deadheading for the daylilies. Time and age bring changes and decisions have to be made. Theyre not always easy. I dont know which is more painful eliminating ice cream or pulling out the ladys mantle.
My Platycodon is a good example. When the platycodon was young, it stood upright by itself, a mass of blue flowers that look like little hot air balloons. Now it flops over and needs support. When I tie it back, I feel as if Im putting a free spirit in restraints. Instead, Ill have to divide it or move it to the rear of the border. Or take the Queen Elizabeth roses on the arbors. Like Henny Youngman said, take them please. Theyre not living up to their promise their legs are bare, the blooms are sporadic, and the new growth sticks up in uneven spikes. Its like theyre having a bad-hair day.
Or consider the lavender that grows in the corners of the four vegetable quadrants. Its scent perfumes my soul but even though the bushes were trimmed back, theyre bordering on the invasive intruding on the space reserved for eggplants and bush beans and peppers. The whole garden is organic which matters to a breast cancer survivor and the vegetables provide sustenance. I love the lavender, but the way its taking over reminds me of the way work can intrude on the personal space and quiet times that nourish me.
And what strikes me as I assess my garden and my life in this milestone year is that even though we are both straining at the seams, there are empty places within our borders. I forgot to plant the sunflowers, and the hollyhocks that once peeked over the corners of the fence have disappeared. The dahlias didnt make it through the winter and I didnt get around to replacing them. All these flowers are like old and dear friends I let myself lose contact with. Maybe this weekend Ill call Martha in Mexico, my globe-trotting shopaholic friend who took me bargain-hunting from Cambridge to Copenhagen. Or perhaps Ill e-mail Kit in North Carolina, who saw me through so many hard times and was there when I was fighting breast cancer.
The garden was born in the darkest of days and for five years, its always been a symbol of hope. Its always called to tomorrow. I remember when I was in treatment, and Id sit on a bench and smell the Casa Blanca lilies and watch the goldfinches and wait for a hummingbird. And wonder if I would see another season in the garden.
Now I dont think about that so much. I just divide the daylilies and ponder where to move the lavender. I think about preserving my own health and joy. I have to keep tweaking my garden and my life.
Retyped and Dedicated to my dear friend, Cathy Cashman (3/23/56 - 8/12/01), who was also a co-worker and friend of the author.
By Irene Virag
The bed where my Casa Blanca lilies flourish turned into a metropolis last year, and I had to divide the clumps this season. I had no place in my crowded garden for the unearthed plants and so I packed them off to readers. It was a way of saying thank you to people who sustained me. Heres something from my garden, I was telling them. Heres something from my life."
The thought reinforced the way my garden and my life are entwined. Its always been that way ever since the first seedling went into the garden that used to be the middle of my front lawn. My garden is 5 years old. Im in my fifth year as a cancer survivor. Its no coincidence. I planted the garden when I was undergoing chemotherapy.
Every season since, I have found sanctuary in the place my husband and I call the Garden of Health and Joy. The garden has lived up to its name, and I have written often of my adventures within its boundaries. Now as I snip basil for dinner or cut a bouquet of roses or make room for a new vine called Cobea, I cant help thinking about where I am in life and where my garden is. Five years after a wild seed changed my life, my garden needs a little tweaking and so do I.
Im not talking radical change. My soil is healthy and so, basically, am I. All was fine with my yearly mammogram and sonogram and I see my oncologist every three months. I love telling people Im a five-year survivor. Its a yardstick of sorts.
You could say my garden is lush. It should be. For five years, its been getting plenty of sun and ample water and lots of compost. You could even say its voluptuous. I like the sound of that in his wilder moments, my husband says it about me.
But you could also say my garden is just a smidgen overgrown. As is more often than not the case, horticulture is imitating life. My garden is on the verge of growing out of bounds. Im stressed, caught up in a new project. And higher powers are relocating our workstations for reasons that are difficult for the rest of us to discern. Im adrift in a sea of boxes waiting to be moved. Its a little like the garden. I like order. And I dont know where everything is.
I cant help thinking that if I can get the garden into better shape, I can do the same thing for myself. But its not a case of mere maintenance the gym for me and deadheading for the daylilies. Time and age bring changes and decisions have to be made. Theyre not always easy. I dont know which is more painful eliminating ice cream or pulling out the ladys mantle.
My Platycodon is a good example. When the platycodon was young, it stood upright by itself, a mass of blue flowers that look like little hot air balloons. Now it flops over and needs support. When I tie it back, I feel as if Im putting a free spirit in restraints. Instead, Ill have to divide it or move it to the rear of the border. Or take the Queen Elizabeth roses on the arbors. Like Henny Youngman said, take them please. Theyre not living up to their promise their legs are bare, the blooms are sporadic, and the new growth sticks up in uneven spikes. Its like theyre having a bad-hair day.
Or consider the lavender that grows in the corners of the four vegetable quadrants. Its scent perfumes my soul but even though the bushes were trimmed back, theyre bordering on the invasive intruding on the space reserved for eggplants and bush beans and peppers. The whole garden is organic which matters to a breast cancer survivor and the vegetables provide sustenance. I love the lavender, but the way its taking over reminds me of the way work can intrude on the personal space and quiet times that nourish me.
And what strikes me as I assess my garden and my life in this milestone year is that even though we are both straining at the seams, there are empty places within our borders. I forgot to plant the sunflowers, and the hollyhocks that once peeked over the corners of the fence have disappeared. The dahlias didnt make it through the winter and I didnt get around to replacing them. All these flowers are like old and dear friends I let myself lose contact with. Maybe this weekend Ill call Martha in Mexico, my globe-trotting shopaholic friend who took me bargain-hunting from Cambridge to Copenhagen. Or perhaps Ill e-mail Kit in North Carolina, who saw me through so many hard times and was there when I was fighting breast cancer.
The garden was born in the darkest of days and for five years, its always been a symbol of hope. Its always called to tomorrow. I remember when I was in treatment, and Id sit on a bench and smell the Casa Blanca lilies and watch the goldfinches and wait for a hummingbird. And wonder if I would see another season in the garden.
Now I dont think about that so much. I just divide the daylilies and ponder where to move the lavender. I think about preserving my own health and joy. I have to keep tweaking my garden and my life.
Retyped and Dedicated to my dear friend, Cathy Cashman (3/23/56 - 8/12/01), who was also a co-worker and friend of the author.
