bulb therapy
by bam
the air’s been sodden around here with the sound of buzz saws and grinders and choppers, the sounds of the earth being chewed up and gnawed and spit back out. sawdust abounds.
on one side of this old yard, trees have been succumbing, falling to the ground and hauled away. on the other side of this old yard, a wobbly fence came down and with it years and years of my old vines, vines i’d long ago planted, vines i’d watched creep proudly, robustly, across the cedar planks. my climbing hydrangeas, of late, had grown into tangled, glorious specimens, their canes thick as tree trunks, some of them. but a week ago, they lay limp on the ground, some of them crushing whatever had dared to bloom in the tight space below.
i’d felt as crushed as my garden. those old vines, cascading with dark green leathery leaves, and clusters of lacy white blooms, they’ve served as the backdrop to my secret sacred garden. they were the curtain wall between me and the world beyond. they were the screen that wrapped me and my prayers when i’d sit down to offer up my petitions, or when i’d tiptoe along the bluestone steps, playing peek-a-boo behind the boughs. they were home to cardinal and squawking bluejay. they were landing pad for the occasional monarch butterfly. or the hummingbird who’s been hovering for weeks now, before she flew away south.
because i live in the middle of two houses that have recently sprung “for sale” signs, because good folk with new dreams have moved in, or soon will do so, it’s my job to shift and bend and adjust. it hasn’t been easy. i’ve lay awake plenty of nights pining for an old pine that is no longer. i’ve been out before dawn surveying the damage. i whittled away two whole hours in a dentist’s chair dreaming up the contraption i’d build to try to salvage my vines.
the trees are now piles of wood chips. the old fence replaced with a new one. old ferns have been crushed. old vines looking worse for the wear. they’re withering, some of them, and barely holding on for dear life.
and all this, of course, is backdrop to the real stuff of life: in a spiral of grief that continues to turn, this past week held poignant first-year markings of the deaths of people i loved, my father-in-law, my very dear friend. it just so happened that tuesday was both the birthday of my friend who died in march, and the first-year anniversary of my friend who died last september.
and when you’re aching in that whole-body sort of a way, when you feel sodden with sadness, you find yourself in terrain beyond words. i found myself aching to order up sacks of bulbs, to lift my trowel, to slice into the earth, and tuck away what amounts to hope, faith and promise: to plant myself an autumnal crop of bulbs, all of which will lie unseen through the winter, and then when the thaw comes, when the dregs of winter at last melt away, tender green slips will poke through the earth, will rise and reach for the light, will open in bloom. will whisper: “here’s your reward for believing.” or “here’s what you get when you hold onto hope.”
i have friends who reach for needle and thread. i have friends who click their knitting needles, who unspool their skeins of yarn, who measure their prayer in row after row. i have friends who chop, and sizzle, and stir their pots. i have friends who dab their brushes in paint, splash color across canvas. i’m apt to reach for the healing balms of the trowel, to get down on my knees and coax tender stems, prop fallen blooms, to play out the ministries of the garden. for in tending the earth, i always find healing.
the rain, blessed rain, kept me from digging this week. so i distracted myself with the next best thing: the bulb catalog. specifically, the one from old house gardens, the charmingest purveyors of heirloom bulbs that i’ve ever known, all under the wings of bulbsman scott kunst, a man so dear he scribbles love notes onto each and every order. he’s retiring this year, nearly a quarter-century after deciding to devote his life to keeping alive some of the rarest, breathtakingest bulbs on the planet. so i’ve ordered up my last batch from dear scott, the last time i’ll find one of his love notes on my bill.
i tell you, i was overwhelmed by the pull of the earth, the impulse to get down on my knees, and stitch my garden whole again, one bulb after another.
because, really, it was me i was aching to stitch together again. and i find my balm in the bulbs of september.
where do you find your balms, your holiest balms?
p.s. a tiny word cloud about old house gardens, where each bulb comes with biography, with the year — or the long-ago century — of its first appearance on the planet (say, “little beeswings,” a dahlia from 1909), and a charmed tale of its origins or its near-extinctions. and the old line-drawings that punctuate the catalog draw a daydreamer in. the delicate blooms found on its pages are pure acts of resistance, of refusing to let the beautiful wither away from this earth. and the secret weapon of nearly each and every one is their heavenly perfume. whereas modern-day hybridized bulbs might have had their scent stripped away, these beauties stir olfactory sense, infusing your garden and your nose with the perfumes of long long ago….
I can’t think of a finer antidote for loss and heartache than to plant heirloom bulbs for next spring. Love thinking of you gently tucking each little lovely into its garden bed… Peace to your dear sweet heart. And thank you for telling us about Old House Gardens!! xxoo
and sign up for their monthly gazette, a compendium of heirloom bulb wonderfulness that will make you dizzy with joy. xoxoxoxoxo
Oh golly. I so needed this to pull me up to the table and breathe and forget about the ever ubiquitous call to live in the present moment and have permission to fall back into the past and beauty of bulbs. Such on run on sentence that one. Anyway, I think I will try to be a bulb this coming season and have a story. I will be a bulb that is allowed to just slowly grow into the year and bloom a bit and then retreat and feed my bulb soul for the next spring/summer. Ok…let’s commit to getting our bulb selves going. I am going to order the catalogue, even though I am not of that earthy ilk, and find a bulb that appeals to my soul and plant one or two as a reminder that the cycles of the season are slow and eternal. xxoo to you dear bam, ever inspirational bulb woman.
“be a bulb.” now, there’s a mantra. i might have to choose one of those tender “minor” bulbs, they call them. i might choose ‘giant’ or ‘elwes” snowdrop. or maybe white spanish bluebell, a cascade of snowflakey bells…..
love your take on it, lamcal. i always, always love your take on it. imagine the meditations, on our knees, trowel in hand, tucking bulb after bulb in the chilling earth, as the last slant of autumnal sun keeps our fingers pulsing with warmth….and then we retreat for the long winter’s nap. the bulbs’ and our own…..
Last winter I grew hyacinths in bulb vases and had pots of amaryllis blooming in late winter. They were lovely, gentle companions when all is bleak here. I will have them again.
Planting bulbs will stir me to work in the garden now that we are getting some rain to soften the soil. Thanks for sharing the catalog information.
a hyacinth in winter makes me weak at the knees. i love bulbs through the darkest passages of winter. i cling to the earth and its vapors to carry me along…..
Dearest bam … Been away from the table of late, so catching up. As always, I look at this post as a metaphor and direct its truths to my heart.
Your heart is so evident in this post. The loss of those you loved so dearly represented in the beautiful blooms you cared for so tenderly, the rickety fence and the blooms torn away, the trees that surrounded you for so long, now gone. Such poetry, yet so honest and true.
Tending a garden is a labor of love … careful preparation of the soil, planting deeply to establish roots, and having the patience to wait for that tender shoot that promises your labor was not in vain. It’s not just for aesthetic value – it’s therapy.
I’m reminded that those we love deeper than the sea are worth every bit of everything and, even though we can’t see that bulb asleep under the ground, we trust that we will see the beauty of it in due time. Thank you for this. I love you.
dear darling, it’s always a treat when a few days after a post, i find a sweet note tucked onto the table. i know your heart is heavy, too, these days. and my prayer for you is that after the long winter months, there is beauty blooming for you. in your heart. in the heart of the ones you love. holding you tight. xoxoxox thanks for stopping by…..where there is always a place reserved just for you.
You’re a wonder, beautiful bam. xox
I know that heart of yours… it felt like coming home, listening to your words. Thank you for sharing! XOXO Peggy, a fellow garden writer of the spirit
bless your heart! thank YOU!
p.s. i just peeked at YOUR site, it’s wonderful. you are indeed a kindred garden-writer spirit. AND you garden in your bathrobe!!! (i’ve been known to go out in pajamas, not even remembering to grab the robe!)