One of my favorite methods of gardening is anti-activity, the practice of disregard. Now, that’s not the same thing as neglect, which would mean not pulling weeds or watering, or any number of small things we do to keep our gardens lovely. Disregard is accepting what it is various plants and bushes decide to do on their own. Letting them be. Watching them insert themselves where they wish to, and not interfering.
We had to remove an infected tree from our hedge, so in the open space we planted a camellia bush and a red-twigged dogwood along the outer edge, scarlet runner beans on their pole trellises in front of those, and flowers in front. Hostas had already been there, and a poppy that came from who knows where. I found some flower seeds from last year and was gifted with some wildflower seeds, so I planted them all. Little sprouts are up now of those, but what has surprised me is that when I checked on this space after a two-week hiatus due to surgery, I found growing amongst the little flowers radishes ready to eat. What??? I don’t know for sure how they got there, and neither does my husband. As near as we can figure, radish seeds somehow were mixed in with the flower seeds. I love radishes and I’m enjoying this example of crunchy happenstance in my salads.
A long-standing disregard based on curiosity involves wild foxglove. I make bets with myself at the end of its season as to where it might decide to grow the following spring. I let the spent blooms lie where they fall so the results of the guessing game will be in my favor. If it’s a windy winter, though, the odds are no longer in my favor. The foxgloves’ decisions can either make for a great surprise in composition, adding height and pinkness to a section of a flowerbed, or disaster if it chooses a space where it looks awkward or it hogs a space where I want something else to be. That problem is easily solved, however, by a yank of prudent removal. The time for that, sadly, is now. Bye-bye foxgloves. See you next year, who knows where?
Almost a decade ago, my friend Liz was overrun by rose campion (Silene coronaria)(also called bloody William—eeuww!) (deer resistant and drought tolerant!) and in a fit she ripped them all out and gifted them to me. They take over, she told me. Oh, gee, thanks, Liz. But you know, they haven’t. She has rich river silt in her soil. I have compacted clay and that has made all the difference. I like how they look, and the greyish-green of their foliage is a nice contrast to their vermillion blooms. Their spread makes a nice drift. And they LOVE to drift! I never know where I’m going to find them from year to year. Only if I look for the little rosettes in the fall do I have any hint of where they will take over. Just because they have grown in one area throughout the summer, there’s no guarantee they’ll be in the same place next year. Their little feet like to roam. I treat them the same way I do with foxgloves. I send them packing if I don’t like where they’ve plunked themselves down. When the blooms are finished, I either stack the stems where I want some plants to be next year, or I cut off the dried blooms full of seeds and plant them the following spring, in an attempt to force them to grow where I please. Sometimes that works and sometimes not. That’s what I call laissez-faire disregard.
Wild daisies can also be unwelcome brigands in a manicured, planned bed, but I let some of them stay if otherwise I’d have an empty space, or if I’m waiting for a late riser to come up. The daisy blooms and dies to ugly stems, and then I remove it and the other plant rises to take its place. Usually, though, I don’t keep them underneath open windows, because they smell like dog wee. Sometimes our open pasture is full of them, and then they are pretty to look at, from a distance. They grow in the soil under trees and bushes, so there’s that in their favor, too, especially if a tree or bush blooms at the same time. Then I get to view a complementary double palette of color.
I’m a fan of happenstance in my garden because it’s like getting a present from Mother Nature. I don’t know what it’s going to be or where and I look forward to the surprise every year.