Last fall I loved Margaret. This spring I was mad at her.
Margaret Renkl is a keen observer of nature, which makes her writing, in her books and her essays in the New York Times, a delight to read. Her descriptions of the plant and animal life in her own backyard are informative, honest, and often poetic. All of this is why, when I read that she no longer puts her garden to bed in the fall but lets flower stalks and leaf litter remain as winter homes for insects and wildlife, I was a happy gardener. In October, I was more than willing to let everything die naturally, trusting that the reward would be bees and butterflies bursting forth from the debris to pollinate my flowers, and that the leaf litter would harbor baby fireflies to dart about all summer with their magic lanterns.
On the first nice day of April, I walked around the yard. The garden beds were full of dried up stems, shredded hydrangea heads, layers of packed leaves, shriveled roses. I began to doubt. Was all this really necessary, Margaret? Are there really hundreds of living things in all this mess? Am I going to discover the thumb-size cottontail bunnies you promised would be nested under the mass of dried catmint? When Margaret talked about the benefits of an untidy garden, maybe she hadn’t said “hundreds” of insects, and maybe she didn’t mean that every single stalk had to be left. Because now I had a huge mess to tackle. I had to get started.
Vowing to be careful to avoid ruining any pending insect births—even though I wasn’t sure what one might look like—I began. I removed the matted catmint. Not only were there no baby bunnies, but the dried flowers disintegrated, and the ground was covered with gray ashes. My instinct was to get a broom and dustpan, but of course one doesn’t sweep a garden. I started cutting the stems of the Shasta daisy and before long my fingers started to ache. I debated replacing my pruning shears with the long-handled loppers I know I have somewhere. Or maybe I could wield a scythe. Then I pictured the aftermath of losing control of either of those, and I proceeded to clip stem by stem. Why hadn’t I done some of this last fall!
Taking a break to spare my thumbs, I began pulling the brown tops from my epimedium and then stopped because I had no idea whether they were dead or just waiting to turn green. I wish I had a whole garden of hellebore, because the one I have has pretty pink blossoms toward the end of March and is unfazed by April cold or snow. When I pulled away the leaves at its base, I wasn’t sure whether those leaves were last year’s or this year’s.
By now my back is starting to ache and my hands are already sore. I’m disgruntled at both of them. I’m feeling a little guilty, but at this point I don’t really care that I may have disengaged some insect eggs. I’m embarrassed that I need to research epimedium and some other things that I’m not sure how to care for. Everything is too much work. I’m pretty mad at Margaret.
Before taking my bad mood inside, I try to look at the garden in the Margaret way—observing to be astonished and finding joy and hope in nature. I see two patches of bloodroot, their white petals open. Yesterday it was cloudy, and they stayed mostly rolled up. The tiny Tête-à-Tête daffodils are looking very cheerful despite the hard rain of the other day, as are the sweet wisps of blue hyacinths. I see that the ground cover of creeping Veronica has spread farther, covering the ugly cement of the foundation.
While I was pulling away leaves, I noticed a ridge and a hole, signs of a chipmunk tunnel. This had made me furious, but now, through Margaret’s lens, I believe he has as much—or more—of a right to be here as I do. “We are in nature; we do not own nature.”
I love Margaret again.
Carlene Phillips, author of “A Common History: The Story of Harvard’s Identity,” is a regular feature writer who pauses from time to time to reflect on the humor in the everyday.
