November Reflections

I'm going to miss the ripples. Williams Lake yawns gusts of fog each morning as it prepares for several months of slumber. Surroundings -- doubled by lake reflections -- will seem diminished soon, so I seek chores that take me near windows for the last, bittersweet glimpses. I admire the stand of balsams around the little bay across from us and store their squiggly reflections among favorite seasonal memories.

Juvenile loons, busy with practice flights and rallying cries from lake to lake, will leave soon. Their calls, which change in character and intensity during their sojourn up north, will be sorely missed.

While there is an undeniable poignancy in the countdown to winter, I harbor few regrets at the prospect of pewter days and the stillness of snow. With winter's curtain drawn across the lake, I'll claim the time to do my own reflecting.

Like most gardeners, I burst out of the gate sometime in May and continue at a full gallop until frost signals the finish. While the earliest stirrings within woodland and gardens retain their magic, the Zen quality within the art of gardening is lost somewhere during the headlong dash that follows. In April the earth itself is slow to awaken and mustn't be disturbed by soulless interventions. The gardener savors those long-awaited rites of spring -- gently pulling aside winter cover to peek at the first ruby tulip shoots; removing pine boughs from lavender clumps and breathing in the clean, sharp fragrance; pruning roses back to their sturdy, green-flushed bases.

How, I wonder, and when, exactly, does cherished ritual yield to daunting obligation? Considered individually, every garden task, even weeding, brings pleasure in the dedication of mind and body to such rewarding work. No exercise, undertaken dutifully in the hope of maintaining the stamina to carry on, brings the joy one feels in even the most taxing garden chores.

I refuse to believe that the problem lies in the creation of too many gardens. After all, which colony of green friends would I sacrifice? Nor, I feel certain, have I set my standards too high. Visitors are as apt to find chickweed lurking under the peonies as they are to find dust bunnies huddled beneath the tea cart. No, the real culprit, I suspect, is a lack of focus. By May I am caught up in dithering. The flat of alyssum I set out to plant in the entry garden is left to languish in the sun while I dash for a spade to transplant the physostegia that overwhelms its neighbors. I must water in the transplant and, while I'm at it, scratch a little fertilizer around those peonies. At the end of the day I've begun far more than I've finished and the serenity prognosis is grim.

Sweet November! Not only the problem, but the solution is perfectly clear. Plans. I need plans. I already own a sturdy metal clipboard-cum-portable desk for the sundry labels, markers, and lists the dedicated gardener needs in situ. Over morning coffee I'll just need to figure out which soul-satisfying tasks will serve gardens and gardener best. Each day will begin with a thoughtfully developed agenda. I shall preside over a veritable Eden.

Wretched November! The gardener has too much time for a cost-benefit analysis. Moments of madness are, after all, a small price to pay for the flexibility to welcome drop-in visitors who'd heard that the daylilies would be at their peak. Reports that the loon baby is out for its first swim merit a drop-everything pontoon ride. Fresh coffee cake at a friend's house is an offer I can't refuse. No question about it-the face I'm obliged to see reflected in the mirror every morning belongs to an unrepentant ditherer.

Copyright © 2002, Julie B. Scouten