Rome wasn't built in a day - Sissinghurst, UK
We all have our own perspective, and sometimes it’s hard to change it. We may stare at a blank space in our garden for hours, days even; completely incapable of imagining anything other than the ubiquitous lawn or the odd garden gnome, then a friend comes over, stares at the same space for thirty seconds over the top of her lemonade, and comes up with a blueprint to make Gertrude Jekyll drool.
Over time we human beings become blind to our personal space. It’s the reason that right now, on your kitchen countertop or buffet, there is a semi-permanent pile of months-old shopping flyers, old vitamin bottles and a houseplant on the critical list. I’m not throwing stones – I’ve got my own pile. I merely draw your attention to the fact that the same thing happens in the garden. And quite frankly, it is far easier to blame difficult terrain and greedy shade trees than to look at it one more time with a fresh perspective. A truly fresh perspective lets go of how it has always regarded a space, and instead looks at it with new eyes. A fresh perspective does not allow itself to be beaten by a laundry list of zoning requirements, tree drip lines and one inch of topsoil; it bears more than a passing resemblance to the unbridled idealism of a twenty-something – the practicalities will come after the dreams are drawn up.
Well, I’m afraid there’s no way of reclaiming your twenties (says she bitterly), but it’s certainly possible to reclaim your own perspective, and one of the best ways I know of doing it is by simply harnessing the power of someone else’s point of view.
A friend that gardens, and gardens well, can be an angel sent from heaven when one is starting to contemplate asphalt over ambiance and the budget doesn’t include a personal consultation by a top landscape designer. When I moved into my home seven years ago, I despaired at three levels of honeysuckle vines, poison ivy, weedy grass and groundhog holes – with a few shovelfuls of broken glass thrown in for giggles. The woods were reclaiming the yard, one wild grape tendril at a time, privacy was a luxury devoutly to be wished, and I had absolutely no idea where to start.
So, I readied my notebook, pulled out some graphing paper, and invited a friend over. My friend had just taken a lot in her own small town and turned it into a gorgeous space where gentle formality paired with soft country plantings and created a miraculous surprise for anyone who opened her garden gate and peeked inside. I respected her opinion, but didn’t hold out much hope. Faced with my hilly topography, carnivorous vines and greedy trees, I was fairly certain that even the stoutest plantswoman would quail at the challenge.
Surprisingly, my friend did not shudder or make an excuse to leave early. Instead, she said something that has stuck with me ever since and inspired much of my garden design over the next seven years, “I envy you your levels,” she remarked over her lemonade. “You can create so many different rooms in your garden.”
I will admit I didn’t see it at first. In fact I think I laughed sharply and told her to adjust her sunglasses. But after she’d gone home to her small-town garden and I was left with mine, I pulled out a folding chair, set it up amongst the vines and weeds and sat for a moment, pondering her words and pondering the garden.
Where once there was forest...
Rooms eh? I hadn’t thought about that. Instead I had focused on the truncated spaces, the lack of traditional flat lawns and general obstacles to that which I considered a “standard” garden. My friend was challenging me to look beyond the obvious use of the space and create something a little different…and seven years later that’s precisely what I have done. The back garden levels have allowed me to create “rooms” for the vegetables and the compost pile, a “room” for the bees and soft fruit, winding paths and secret steps, and even a “room” with playhouse and lawn for the children – if only they would stay in it. A long slender stretch of grass in the front has become a sunny perennial border, and that greedy maple provides enough shade to keep hostas healthy and dicentra divine in a shady “room” on the north side of the house.
All because someone helped me see it a little differently.
These days I try to keep my perspective fresh by playing a little game with myself when I visit someone else’s horticultural masterpiece. It’s not playing fair I know, but I squint my eyes and try to imagine the space as it once was, probably plain, possibly difficult. Then I open them wide again and suddenly I can see the paint separated from the canvas. It’s just a little exercise in reclaiming perspective – but it’s always wise to keep these skills fresh for the next time I come across a rocky outcropping or an inconvenient tree and need to brainstorm the possibilities.
It’s a sad fact that we human beings are highly skilled at being critical of one another, but we also have the ability to harness this power for good. Invite a friend over and give them carte blanche to talk about your garden till they’re blue in the face…then go get your hands dirty. All you need is a little perspective.
