December 9, 2021
Lovettsville, VA
Dear Scott,
My apologies for allowing your letter to float gently down through the inbox until it lodged somewhere between a reminder to pay my sales tax and a notice of toll violation on the Dulles Greenway. You’ll be pleased to know that writing to you is more agreeable than dealing with either of those issues. They have been shelved for another hour/day/week, and I have re-read your letter to answer it properly.
While I did that, 12 new emails joyfully deposited themselves into my inbox.
This inbox. What is it exactly? What was it before it became what it is? It has not in any way diminished the traditional means of delivering fresh administrative crises to our doorsteps. We seem to have just as much physical mail – the bills, the notices, the flyers, the magazines, the vaguely official looking envelopes that dare you to discard them at your peril. We have voicemails – now added to the spam racking up on the machines attached to our landlines.
And we have the additional hydra head of text threads. We answer. More come. We fail to answer, and six hours later it is only visible if you scroll down. And who has the time to scroll down besides teenagers and people on a too-long VRBO family reunion?
And on top of the mail, the answering machine, the voicemails, and the texts…on top of all of that, there’s this inbox.
Self portrait with Inbox
I know you can relate. Everyone is dealing with this. I describe the daily fare of so many Americans, whether you work in an office or at home. Even the retired cannot escape. This is normal life now. And we just shrug, accept that we must live our lives in the spaces between one notification and the next, shrug again, and make a note to find a doctor who might be willing to dole out Xanax like TicTacs.
And all this without even touching the subject of social media. John Freeman wrote his excellent book The Tyranny of Email before a Facebook account became de rigueur. Put it on your list, it is a good one. Deep thinking is not possible in this kind of world, which, if anyone is paying attention, explains a whole hell of a lot.
Of course there are good and worthy emails. Perhaps it’s a job promotion or a chance for a second interview. In my world it’s a lovely note from a reader, or a surprise notification that Tropical Plants and How to Love Them was just shortlisted for the Peter Seabrook Practical Book of the Year (I’ll make sure you hear about this a few times, never fear). It’s an email from an old friend – or a treasured colleague. When I open an email from Allen Bush it’s like being handed a cup of tea and a chocolate chip cookie. Email is not without its wonderful moments.
And its puzzling ones. I recently received a fairly unhinged email from a Dutch woman who vehemently wished me more flooding in my garden, having picked me at random as a representation of all things American and conspicuously consumptive. Somewhere in that tirade she informed me that I might be upset to have a stranger lecturing me, but that she bet her English was better than my Dutch. The dreaded inbox was ignored whilst I I took precious minutes to tell her that this was certainly true, but my manners were a damn sight better than hers. And that she might want to read my first book Big Dreams, Small Garden, and realize that she had her head fully up her arse.
But enough. You brought up something in your letter that I wanted to comment upon, and it’s certainly not the two GardenComm gold awards you will not let die already. (Did I mention that Tropical Plants and How to Love Them was shortlisted for Best Practical Book of the Year by the UK’s Garden Media Guild?)
It’s this:
“…I believe that those who know less about horticulture feel it and need it and find joy in it more. Certainly, more purely. Our job, as horticulturists, is to find ways to give it to them.”
That resonated. And not because you were generous enough to call me a horticulturist, which I am not. I am simply a writer who has spent far too much of her life in the garden, and the rest of it studying the words of other similarly unbalanced people.
No, it was the first bit — those who know less about horticulture may just get more out of it. Some will protest, but in my experience, this rings true. You call it horticultural innocence. That is a wonderful term.
They see Chihuly. I see really healthy adiantum and why can’t I get mine to look like that? (Atlanta Botanic Garden)
It doesn’t mean that the horticulturists don’t find joy, that there’s some malevolent wizard behind the curtain that you can never unsee once the curtain is lifted and you are introduced. Far from it, otherwise I would not be spending my birthday next weekend happily tramping up to Longwood to see their Fire and Ice Christmas display.
It means that my husband and friends will be overcome with the beauty of it – the in-your-face-awesomeness of it all (if past years are anything to go by) – and then over lunch they’ll slide right back into talking about how likely the Caps are to win the Stanley Cup this year. They’ll experience all of the magic without looking for the hidden wires.
They are experiencing. I’m identifying. Longwood Christmas 2018.
Meanwhile I’ll be trying to figure out how to mist the tillandsia-covered trees without leaving water spots on the ornaments, or how the cool, resinous scents of the Mediterranean room can be replicated in my steamy woodland greenhouse, or how to perfectly prune the Ilex verticillata, or what the hell that bromeliad was next to the children’s garden entrance. I’ll also be ruminating over their healthy camellias in that back corner of the East Conservatory; and trying to swallow my Grinch-like glee when I find scale. Because you know I’m going to look. Because you’d look too.
This camellia at Chanticleer was clean. Of course it was. They have elves and fairies up there making magic.
And meanwhile, Mike and friends are just bathing in the experience. They are entranced by hanging trees, and blooming camellias, and don’t know what tillandsia is and they seriously don’t care. And they don’t need to in order to have full and happy lives. I don’t want them to. They get the full joy and none of the scale. Why mess with that?
They’re loving the entrance. I’m thinking how well this illustrates the fact that common plants can make uncommon front gardens. (Buffalo Garden Walk)
Mike often brings this up when he’s experiencing a particularly grueling session of garden tripping with me. He reminds me of when we were very young (we’ve been together now longer than we have not), and used to walk through gardens and I was just as fresh-faced and joyful as he was, and thankfully neither one of us had the ability to ‘Gram out the experience to our 623 thousand followers, so the moments did not need to become Premium Content. They just were.
An allium was simply an allium back then. Actually it wasn’t even an allium, it was a round purple ball that looked incredible with those flat yellow flowers under it, and I wanted to have a proper garden someday and I wanted to grow that beautiful thing. I wanted to create the magic I was feeling. Yes, I miss that.
Purple balls and yellow flowers. (Sarah P. Duke Garden)
That feeling takes me by surprise every once and awhile, and it is always when I am looking at pictures of my own garden from past seasons. I am not in the middle of creating it – I am not in the blood sweat and tears of it. I know what all the plants are, so I don’t need to make notes. There is little more to be said, to be teased out from it. I can just look at the photo and absorb the magic.
And then I see the obvious hole that was left when the allium went over, and we are back to square one.
Purple balls have names now. One of my favorites is Allium schubertii.
At the same time, I wonder if all professions suffer similarly? Does a doctor recognize a beautiful woman passing by , or does he see a 35-year-old female with possible thyroid issues and initial signs of osteoporosis? Is a cosmetologist’s head turned by a stunning haircut, or does he just want to know whose shears are responsible?
I’m way over an acceptable word count, and have left no room for news of the garden, which is just as well because there isn’t any. I have been very detached from it once I dug what was to be dug and then went for another injection in my back. I am finding my way back.
However. Mike and I have joined a gym and I have high hopes for building back better – quite literally. I should resemble Linda Hamilton circa 1991 by April.
Yours,
Marianne
P.S. I’m glad you enjoyed your California adventure – overdue since COVID so cruelly stripped you of seeing the Spring Trials in a Plant Nerd van. It really is a beautiful state – so many microclimates. When my mother asks me gardening questions I always answer with “You’re kidding, right?”
P.P.S. I can send you a link to the GMG shortlist announcement if you’d like.
Yep, this is true. I can remember the time when I first went to a National Gardens Scheme garden, looked at cabbages and realised I had had it with admiring cabbages. The more I learned the more I also learned to look and the more I looked, sadly, the less I really loved.
We went to Beth Chatto’s and I learned about the garden I did NOT want to make. I learned to look beyond the plants and see how they were put together……
Enough said. I’m sure a wine connoisseur doesn’t enjoy the cheap junk I can happily drink. I’ve written on here about my ignorant pleasure in music. It’s a sad thing and real.
As are those endless messages in multiple formats…… xxx
Anne, thank you for nudging me back to your earlier words on music. You’ve reminded me of the way that Mike listens to great pianists (as a pianist) vs the way that I listen to great pianists. He — as if the world could end with every note. I — thinking it’s very wonderful indeed but will there be ice cream in the interval? He’s getting a deep joy out of it that is different to mine completely, which is why he sees far more concerts than I, and I see far more gardens than he. —MW
Agreed that something is lost, but also something is gained, as knowledge increases. Puts me in mind of Robert Pirsig’s discussion of Romantic versus Classical beauty in the book Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.
Debra I’m not familiar with this book — please elaborate! -MW
Dear Marianne–get off the bandwagon and just enjoy the ride! Isn’t a real kiss all the more special when it’s under the mistletoe?!
I agree Ruth, there is much to enjoy and experience and I very much love what I do, but I recognize this shift in perception and wonder how it changes enjoyment. It is deeper — different. For instance, my understanding of horticultural achievement can actually inspire a greater sense of awe because I recognize what had to be overcome or innovated in order to achieve something — where a friend only experiences it on one level, much like Anne’s comment about enjoying cheap wine. It is deeper joy I suppose in that regard, but the childlike innocence is gone. That’s the feeling I miss sometimes. But then I also miss not realizing what had to happen each day to pay a mortgage. 😉 -MW
If it were that easy, Ruth! I guess maybe you were born sunnyside up, but some of us not so much. Takes us all to make a world…..
Hey, Marianne, I just heard that Tropical Plants and How to Love Them was shortlisted for Best Practical Book of the Year by the UK’s Garden Media Guild. That is awesome! Congratulations! Please let Scott and others know!
Carol, you will be sure I will do my utmost to see that he’s sufficiently informed, but please feel free to send him an email just to make sure. —MW
I can relate to this from a different (yet similar) vantage point. I teach studio art at the university-level and have the education, training, certificates, workshops, apprenticeships, etc. required. After 22 years of teaching and living the “publish or perish” lifestyle, I’m not as enamored with art as I used to be. Strolling through a museum satisfies but no longer excites. My studio collects dust. My creative pursuits have lead me away from the studio and out into the garden. Oddly enough, I enjoy being in my backyard so much that I considered going back to school for horticulture. It’s the educator in me that wants to know the ‘why’ and the ‘how’ of things. This lovely post combined with Anne Wareham’s, The Deckchair Gardener, has changed my mind! Perhaps the world and my backyard doesn’t need another expert.
Melissa, thanks for sharing this – hoping others will follow with their particular profession, as it provides so much insight. Art museums are still one of the most exciting ways of spending a day off for me, but I can completely understand how that could morph into something different with enough constant exposure (and pressure!). And you also have a point in that the educator part of your personality is what is searching for that ‘why’ — whether or not you get a formal qualification in horticulture, you are most likely to transfer that inquisitive spirit to your garden – sounds as if you already are. – MW
This reminds me of the people I know who turned their hobbies into businesses, only to lose the joy they once had in the hobby.
A perfect example of that is my sister, who co-owned an outdoor gear store for many years. She told me that she got into it because she loved the gear, the discounts, and the opportunities for adventure, and then she got out of it because she was working too hard to want to use the gear, discounts or adventures. She started designing websites a decade ago and designed our gorgeous GardenRant website, and when I asked her if she can simply pull up a shopping site and browse, or does she critique the site first, she admitted that when she sees a great looking site, she immediately pulls the source code. “Would you rather just shop?” I asked. “Definitely” was the answer. But she can’t help it. You can’t unsee the wizard. LOL. – MW
A horticulturist I am not, but experienced enough to easily recognize the sharp points you make with gobs of wit and humour. Thanks again, Marianne, for the insight and chuckles. So nice to have two areas of expertise that the rest of us can simply admire.
Keep ’em coming.
Thank you Ferne! – MW
Marianne, you have expressed a thought that I truly believed was one of only 2 original thoughts I have had over my 56 years. (The other one, by the way is this: the secret to a long marriage is don’t get a divorce. Alas, I guess someone named Ada Calhoun wrote about that. But I insist I came up with the concept on my own.) I also feel that sometimes, having too much knowledge can ruin the wonder of it all. I miss my almost hysterical passion for gardening when I first became interested in it many years ago. I have loved learning about gardening and plants, but there is nothing like that first enthusiasm for a subject.
Obviously great minds think alike! ‘Hysterical passion’ – perfect way of phrasing it. – MW
Congratulations Marianne on your book nomination. The book is on my Christmas wishlist. It’s only normal to critique gardens/plants when your world revolves around them and yes every profession does this (I am a nurse and have to stop myself from always assessing). However, being in the garden is the best thing in the world whether it’s Chanticleer or something much humbler.
“being in the garden is the best thing in the world whether it’s Chanticleer or something much humbler”
Exactly.
I feel like I’m in a sweet spot right now of avid gardener but not horticulturalist. It lets me wonder and not-know just enough when I’m visiting a garden! I’m particularly interested in garden design, and being able to appreciate the magic of good design makes it more magical for me–so far!
I’ve been a pastry baker for 15 years now and my friends joke that they’re too scared to bake me pastries. I guess I’m critical? I mean…if the shoe fits… I’m certainly very different when visiting a new bakery than they are!