One of the
many things that is differentiates the practise of landscape architecture from that of architecture is the near impossibility of seeing planned result.
While architects frequently do see their
designs built and completed – landscape
architects seldom enjoy that perk. Design involving plants, wood, rock must always involve the process of change, growth and aging, that
buildings seldom do. Weathering of brick
and wood, growth of moss on stone, peeling-off of bark, change of foliage
colour , fragrance from flowers and leaves, dappled shade from creepers on
trellis beams, the chirp of birds drawn to berries on a tree are all part of the landscape architect’s
vision for the garden- but not part of the professional “yes-we’re-done- now”
end. In professional landscape projects, the planting team typically works
towards a “mature” look for the garden since most clients insist on it (and it looks good in our portfolio). Large
shrubs, semi-grown tress, carpets of turf, planters filled with perennials are all ingredients in the creation of an
“instant-garden” (just add water).
But what a
contrast this is to the making of my own home-garden . Creating a garden is truly a journey – a slow series of trials,
errors, experiments. This beautiful process will not be rushed,
promises nothing, insists on patience and, as any gardener would vouch, is
seldom finished. Whether you are a
grower of a single tomato plant on a balcony – or if you are lucky to have a
larger garden with a tree or two, the act of gardening makes you aware of the larger natural processes – water,
weather, wind, wildlife(even if it’s only an occasional butterfly). The mere feel
of a handful of crumbly, fragrant earth is such a visceral connect to the wild,
untamed Gaia.
Nurturing a garden has, for me, yielded a
cornucopia of life’s lessons itself in a way no book or prophet could have. Gardening (as life itself) is to be done
gently, with patience. It reminds us,
constantly, that one is never in control, that pruning (be it of twigs and
roots- or of people, ideas, habits) is beneficial to growth. I read
somewhere that one must flourish where one is planted – I have found that to be
both literally and metaphorically untrue.
Whether in a garden or in life sometimes transplantation (or change) is
required to fare better. Both teach us
that change is essential and is all around us.
I write this
as I enjoy the shade of the spathodea trees I planted two decades ago. At various times they have served as goal
posts for the kids’ games, partnered their forays into tree climbing and arboreal
adventures, now generously give
us shade for our many “picnics”, rustle softly at night beckoning us outdoors for some enchanting stargazing .
So many metaphors of my own life are reflected in this small patch of
garden - slender saplings in a new home, first sprout a few leafy branches, have many more snapped by wind and
rain, grow back taller and stronger to produce the most beautiful tulip-like flowers. Twenty
years after - a beautiful canopy that is host to a myriad birds, squirrels,
insects. Now, when I watch their most
recent visitors – a couple of crow-chicks, with their watchful mother nearby, tentatively
venture out of their nests – and explore the beautiful (and beastly) world
around them – my heart with pleasure fills...
