In early May I diligently placed a row of sunflower seeds, each black pod six inches from its neighbor, along the back of my largest garden bed. I watered them and patted myself on the back. By mid July, I expected chest-high flowers, a pop of cheery yellow that would be pretty enough to photograph and share on Instagram. See? I imagined thinking as the likes rolled in, I got this gardening thing. I’ve totally got this under control.
A week later, I spotted with dismay the chewed-open seed casings laying like a taunt on top of the soil. Squirrel or bird, the exact villain I’ll never know. But of this I am certain: come July, not a single stalk of yellow will be towering in my garden.
Losing the sunflower seeds was just one more frustrating development in what has quickly shaped up to be a frustrating growing season for me. Pinto-bean wilt, over-fertilized tomatoes, leggy lavender … it was starting to seem like my garden was destined to be “ugly” this year. And I was starting to lose hope for much of a “useful” harvest of any kind.
But this grumpy response begs the question of what, exactly, is the point of my garden? My own aesthetic (and ideally delicious) enjoyment, yes, but what else? Who else? Perhaps the answer doesn’t—shouldn’t—have very much to do with me at all. Perhaps, instead, I should bury my instinctive desire for complete control over the little patch of land I’ve designated as “my garden” and replace it with a more fluid acceptance of my role as human interloper, who simply brings together natural elements that will, ultimately, do their own thing.
For example, I can bring seeds in contact with soil, but a hungry bird may decide those seeds will be lunch rather than flowers, whether I like it or not. And since my own bodily survival is not truly on the line, maybe that’s okay. Maybe my actions still contribute to a larger web of survival that I’m simply not able to see from my own narrow vantage point. Birds, bugs, microbes building healthier soil for the future—everything benefits from my garden, even if I don’t end up harvesting what I’d initially intended.
This concept of myself as a “sow-and-let-go” steward rather than “master” gardener is something I’ve been thinking a lot about lately, in no small part because I recently had the incredible opportunity to interview Robin Wall Kimmerer on behalf of my alma mater’s alumni magazine, On Wisconsin.
Kimmerer is, of course, a distinguished professor, the bestselling author of Braiding Sweetgrass, a recipient of a 2022 MacArthur “genius grant”—and one of our leading voices on environmental restoration and justice. “People have a great longing to be in a right relationship with nature, and they just don't know how,” she told me. “We’re suffering from a failure of imagination … We can imagine ourselves as kinfolk instead of masters of the universe. We can give people a sense of moving toward something, an intimacy with the natural world.”
I’ll admit, I’m still struggling to fully embrace the seed eaters in my/their/our backyard as genuine kinfolk. But I’m trying my hardest, and I’ve found some help in this week’s resources that might speak to your growing/creative spirit in some way, too.
Dig Deeper
The Teachings of Plants, On Wisconsin Magazine. “For Kimmerer, offering a vision for a healthier, more interconnected future [between humans and nature] is especially crucial for addressing our biggest challenge in the present: climate change. ‘The consensus is that we have all the science and technology we need, but we don’t do anything because we’re relying too much on the intellectual knowing alone,’ she says. ‘We have failed to activate our emotional responses to propel us to change — as Aldo Leopold said, we need poets who are foresters.’”
Why birds and their songs are good for our mental health, from The Washington Post, complete with birdsong clips!
“‘Birds help us feel more connected with nature and its health effects,’ says Emily Stobbe, an environmental neuroscientist at the Max Planck Institute for Human Development. ‘And the more connected we are to nature, the more we can benefit from those effects.’ One hypothesis [about] nature’s salubrious effects, known as the attention restoration theory, posits that being in nature is good for improving concentration and decreasing the mental fatigue associated with living in stressful urban environments. Natural stimuli, such as birdsong, may allow us to engage in ‘soft fascination,’ which holds our attention but also allows it to replenish.”
Listen
Filmmaker and composer Emmanuel Vaughan-Lee recently gave a talk in London about how creatives can (and must) cope with the multiple global crises that are unfolding now in real time. The full talk is posted at Emergence Magazine, and I encourage you to listen or read the transcript. This particular excerpt spoke to me as resonant with the core ideas in Robin Wall Kimmerer’s work:
How do we find our ground in a groundless reality when anything can shift at a moment’s notice? It means that first that we have to recognize that the ground we walked upon was not real. It was not lasting. It was built on quicksand and lies and false everything— a landscape that was not real. It was not grounded in what is real because it was not grounded in that ancient relationship between the human and the living Earth and the recognition of the sacred. It was not grounded in the recognition of the sacred.
So we first have to recognize that we are walking in something that is not real and then turn to something that is real. To recognize that we have ignored the sacred creation of nature, and then turn towards it, with respect and, ultimately, with love. Because this is a story of love as much as it is a story of forgetfulness and remembrance. It is also a story of love. Because at the heart of that ancient primordial relationship that existed, there was love. Not the Hallmark variety of love, not even the human variety of love, but a much vaster, more ancient, and simpler form of love. A covenant of love between the human and the living Earth.
One More Thing
Designer David Bird has worked for some of the world’s biggest and most iconic toy brands (LEGO and Hasbro, in particular). But these days, his passion project is Becorns, a series of photographs, videos, and objects based on figurines he built using found materials in nature—think acorns, sticks, feathers, etc. The series, which was inspired by his daughter, is a whimsical love letter to backyard creatures. It’s also a breathtakingly creative display of childlike wonder and the impact of manifesting “small” acts of kindness toward nature that over time add up to something very big.