It’s the first day of spring and the bees are dead.
After a long yesterday assessing the winter garden hangover – the deer-nibbled evergreens, the chicken-uprooted polygonatum, the muddy mess that will someday house new garden beds, but currently looks like the Somme in 1916 – this news hit me the hardest.
Give me strength.
I am not silly enough to mourn the death of insects that, after all, enjoyed longer lives than their summer sisters, but after a warm winter it felt like a massive failure on my part, and it niggled at me and exacerbated my ratty mood.
It became that broken thorn just under the glove that shifts and pricks as you grip the pruners, and which you won’t locate until you commit to the act of finding your reading glasses. Which then pricks you further, as you now need reading glasses and what the hell.
I smother the feeling and move on (or so I believe), until it pricks again and I have to stop and question why I am snapping at the dogs. The goldfish are happy, successfully overwintered, and thriving; but instead of rejoicing, my mind turns to how long it will be until the heron finds them.
What is my problem? Where the hell is that thorn?
Oh that’s right, the bees are dead. I failed. Everything is not ticking away as it should be. I have to put on my reading glasses, dig it out, and move on.
Bee boxes awaiting a clear-away with all the other bits and pieces that need clearing away.
In a warm winter it is upsetting to lose a hive in the eleventh hour that I went to a great deal of trouble to obtain as a swarm last spring. But then it’s upsetting to lose two ‘Silver Queen’ and one ‘Butterscotch’ euonymus that I went to a great deal of trouble to obtain, site and dream of future passive pairings with; and it’s upsetting to find expensive polygonatum rhizomes scratched out of the ground because two of the hens found a way out of what is rapidly becoming a minimum security prison.
Gardening IS upsetting. It has some seriously dead-in-a-ditch moments (Dan Hinkley’s excellent phrase, not mine). And as Scott Beuerlein discussed in his Rant last week – it’s the long game we’re after. Long stretches of process, with glimpses of result mixed in to keep you hungry.
Reading such confessions is fantastically rejuvenating when you’re still smack in the middle of a young garden. It creates camaraderie across the miles, reminds you that you’re not alone, shatters the fantasy, and deftly removes that thorn. Thank you Dan. Thank you Scott.
It’s harder to find that thorn in an age of Instagram. Though it borders on heresy to be critical of an era that [theoretically] keeps us ever-connected, and über-informed, I cannot help being thankful that I didn’t have the opportunity to start my journey with plants by daily weighing myself against the feeds of 5,634 smiling social media influencers, 95% of which apparently live in a close-up, filtered world of endless happiness and endless summer. For me, the thorn is easier to recognize, locate and dig out.
‘Ice Breaker Max’ looks great in close up.
But what about a newer generation of first-time gardeners understandably addicted to heavily edited fantasy? Or unable to pursue the magic of what Deep Work author Cal Newport terms the ‘super power’ of undistracted, focused thinking, and in time, use it to become extremely skilled at the art and science of gardening? Will they have a harder time coming to grips with the realities of a gardening life? Or will they feel inadequate in the face of a Gardening Life™ and give up?
…but a little less impressive in a very young, early spring garden.
Last week I attended a lecture by an author on how to take and process better photos for Instagram. Her tips were excellent and her delivery, engaging. I’ll probably buy her book and I’ll definitely buy her a drink if we ever meet.
But I left the Zoom feeling vaguely unsettled by the level of fantasy peddled to an unsuspecting (?) public. Ugly compost bins and weedy patches in soft, far-away focus, specific filters used to create continuity across snaps, post-processing beyond the reach (or dreams!) of Ansel Adams. Yes, fantasy has existed as long as we’ve had media vehicles from which to peddle it, but we didn’t keep those vehicles in our back pockets to tempt us and taunt us 24/7.
Not Insta-worthy, but a real part of my garden right now.
I think that many of us (pre-social media) also developed a certain amount of cynicism when it came to these images and stories, offered as they were from marketing teams on high. You just assumed the whole damn thing was groomed/airbrushed/produced. You appreciated it for the aspirational art it was, and the way it made your fingers itch to create something amazing outside. And then you closed the magazine/book/newspaper and got back to the garden – not to be interrupted for the next eight hours, deep work on your mind.
It’s harder to keep that healthy sense of skepticism when your very ordinary next door neighbor is streaming endless premium content with attached soundtrack and slo-mo moments. If she’s doing life and garden that well, there must be something wrong with you.
Except no, there isn’t. The daily reality of my garden is very different from the photos that adorn my website. No I have not doctored them and yes those moments exist, but not all the time and not all together. From the right angle and with the right framing, variations of them exist in all gardens. The plants are just different.
I adore this view of Oldmeadow – and it is very definitely a real, untouched one. However, during the other 50 weeks of the year when the lycoris aren’t blooming, this bed bores me to tears and probably you too. I’m working on it, but it will take time.
So be aware. That’s all I’m saying. Recognize that the dead-in-a-ditch moments are real and they’re coming for you as you expand the scope of your garden. One day the bees will be dead, the euonymus stripped and it will feel debilitating. You can stop there, or you can move on to the next day when you realize that it was going to be a major pain in the butt to move them while you renovated the kitchen garden and, hmmm, you’ve still got last year’s honey in the pantry, and hey, that’s 40,000 less lives to worry about in August. And did you really want a Silver Queen euonymus when there are Silver Lining pyracanthas in the world anyway?
Dead-in-a-ditch is something you’re going to have to deal with more than you won’t. Yes the garden is therapeutic. It nurtures your spirit, feeds your family, impresses your friends, and provides a backdrop for some of the best moments in your life. But it can also weigh heavy some days. Ignore the media, locate and dig out that thorn, and keep moving toward Scott’s long, lingering game. It’s a good one. – MW
Thank you….I needed this!
I feel your pain! Last year my bees ran away from home in the fall. This year, they stayed but all died in an unusual cold snap. I’m going to psyche myself up to clean out the hive (yes I’m mourning my insects) and then reposition it as art in the garden for a few years before I try again.
Misery does indeed love company, thanks for sharing a painful experience that gives comfort to the reality of our gardening experience
This is indeed the gloomiest part of spring,especially the plants that looked fine until a couple of weeks ago and are now clearly dead … but think of all the lovely spaces for your new best (plant) friends!
March is the ugliest month in the garden, period.
Unless you live in New Zealand!
You beat me to it Norah! I was going to add “California” as well. But I agree Sandy, here in my Mid-Atlantic garden March is the ugliest month overall. I remind myself that when it gets going, it GETS GOING, and that will be soon. I also refer to March as “The Mud Time” – even in years when I don’t flatten my kitchen garden. – MW
In zone 10 we are in horticulture heaven. Flowers blooming, bees buzzing, and vegetables are ripe!
Well said! The Instagram Fantasy pic’s are galling, and make even sane gardeners think of buying a box of Miracle Grow and a spray bottle of Ortho, the environment be damned lol. Thanks for the reality check.
Thank you. So very relevant and I definitely feel overwhelmed when looking at those fab pics. But I actually like this mud pie part of spring. It’s full of promise as long as you don’t look at my pile pots that I meant to wash all winter. The earth is opening her arms and it’s just what this winter-wearing soul needs.
Totally inspired by the Naked Ladies, mine need moving so they will bloom and now I am motivated for that! And feeling your pain in your other words, great rant.
But, I prefer the airbrushed aspirations to more and more gardens that are, no work, no maintenance, paved and gravelled. Plants? In a garden? Not a chance!
I’m with you,100%!
There are two weeks every spring when I completely despair of my garden. Then rain comes and some sunshine and some warmth and I see all the possibilities all over again.
Every really wonderful garden writer admits to failures and frustrations because, in the end, we don’t really control anything. But that’s also what makes gardening such a wonder — things we planned may not work out, but then things we didn’t plan look glorious.
After a certain point, a gardener knows which posts and pictures to not be intimidated by. If you’re posting or publishing from the Pacific Northwest, for example, I refuse to be intimidated, because, really, if you can’t garden there, you probably can’t garden anywhere.
And lots of places in England are clearly off the comparison radar, not only for the mild winter temperatures, but also for the relatively regular rainfall. Nonetheless, I love seeing their posts and being reminded of what is to come.
And it’s really all about the joy of being outside, digging in the soil, listening to the birds, checking on what’s coming up, dreaming about what to plant next, and making sure the dogs know where they shouldn’t dig.
It really is all about the joy Kem – thank you for these excellent thoughts! – MW
Your lycoris looks like my naked ladies, which bloom in August in Central California. Same thing?? And with apologies to those of you who have an ugly March, it might be the most beautiful month around here. (I envy your summers, when all is brown or up in smoke.)
Jana it’s a good possibility that in Central California you are growing Amaryllis belladonna – suited more to a Mediterranean climate. These are Lycoris squamigera – both are ‘naked ladies’ or ‘surprise lilies’ and have some similarities with A. belladonna but need a cold winter. A google image search (with reputable sites) should help you make those comparisons, but I don’t think L. squamigera do well/bloom in Central/Southern CA. – MW
Thank you, Marianne. Very helpful, and so was this page: https://www.pacificbulbsociety.org/pbswiki/index.php/AmaryllisVsLycoris
Mine are definitely amaryllis belladonna.
From Marianne’s picture, Amaryllis belladonna has – shorter thicker stalks – and bigger flowers.
In Cape Town we have the vanilla species growing wild, and blooming now as our March lilies. (USA has many horticultural varieties and some cross-species hybrids too)
I try to make many areas beautiful for some time. And often the garden glows. But I feel the pain when nothing is abloom.
For me early spring holds the promise of about one month hence when every day yields the excitement of seeing what is popping outside. Spring is the most wonderful of times for a gardener.
I attended a Zoom on Instagram which led to my abandoning the platform. Not just because of the u realities but the dreadful business of what it demands. It’s like a robot slave driver.
As for failures of a ok winter – why didn’t my hellebores like it, the miserable blighters??????
Perhaps you will reconsider Instagram Anne? But with heavy caveats to keep you sane? There are only hard and fast rules when one is studiously trying to build a massive platform – and many of the best and most talented horticulturists and designers I follow simply don’t have time to do that. The work is their priority, not building content. I like to think of many of the people I follow all over the world as gardening correspondents 🙂 – I can see what is going on in real time in March in a Cape Town garden or August in Puerto Rico or April in East Anglia. I don’t have time for selfie gardening feeds or endless summers; but when I use it like a real-time National Geographic, it works well for me. Unfortunately, Instagram does have it’s evil plans and algorithms, and shows you what it wants to, so I must go hunting for feeds when I am curious and remember to. But isn’t that the basis of real human connection anyway? Searching out those you wish to interact with? Instagram frowns, but why not use it as we wish to – in a more human way.
Sorry about the hellebores. Was it a wet, warm winter for you? – MW
A kindred spirit! I also gave up on Instagram last summer. My account is still there but I don’t update it nor do I scroll through Instagram to see other garden pics to compare to mine. I’m finding joy and wonder right in my own garden, without going through the filter of a smartphone app! (And my hellebores look great, but you’ll just have to take my word for it, unless I decide to write a blog post about it and you stumble upon it one day.). Marianne – Love seeing the pictures of your ugly March garden. Same here~
I feel your frustrations about Instagram, Marianne, and agree that you’re right to take everything there with a healthy dose of skepticism. I think it was Piet Oudolf who said, “anyone can take a good photograph of a bad garden”… BUT it still provides me with a steady source of inspiration, and connection, to gardens and plantings I could never have seen in a glossy magazine (not that there are many of those left) and has sparked comments and conversations with gardeners in England, Germany, Latvia, Norway, Russia, Portugal, Chile… ordinary enthusiasts like myself whose gardens will probably never be professionally photographed and published, but share an appetite for this thoroughly rewarding (if occasionally maddening) obsession. Carry on with your new garden despite the frustrations, and take plenty of photos that you can look back on a few years from now and think, wow I can’t believe it looked like that!
Yep. I often think of February as the shortest longest month until March and its still cold and windy. UGH.
I flip-flop between starting tasks and retreating inside to a good book. My journal reveals some successes and some fails. A win: blooms on the Edgeworthia. A fail: bunnies ate the hazelnut stems. I am guilty of posting pictures of ONLY the good stuff in the garden and it is usually serendipitous.
Thank you for the reality check.
Sorry about the bees.
I always enjoy the potential aspect of March – yes there are bare places, but they have the potential to be lovely (perhaps I planted something wonderful that I’ve forgotten about? Or maybe that thing that looks horridly invasive is really something wonderful that I’ve forgotten about (I should really abbreviate that), but the point is that in March anything can happen.
ceci