Serenity Now: Portland’s Japanese Garden

As promised, here are a few images from my Feb 2006 trip to the Japanese Garden in Portland Oregon. I defy you to feel Holiday angst while browsing these images. I may need to print one out wall-sized and hang it directly behind my computer.

I’m sorry I waited so many months to say something about my visit to this wonderful garden because my feeling for the place isn’t up at the surface. However orderly, misty, and calm comes to mind. I enjoy visiting a garden like this in part because the contrast between my own gardening practice and a garden like this is so extreme and direct. I can’t help but be in awe of such constrained tidiness. It is not the kind of constraint that makes the muscles in a certain rear area tense up, but the kind of restraint that freaks you out with its intelligence and sense of purpose. There’s a feeling that places like this carry that make me hyper-aware of my behaviour.

Stay calm. Be quiet. Walk slowly. Don’t break anything. Good thing I am showered and wearing clean underwear.

I wanted to run around and express my excitment as I usually do when I’m surrounded by new plants and landscapes, making me feel like a keyed up kid in church who’s got to stay quiet for a whole fifty-nine more minutes. And despite the twitchiness and the certainty I would stumble on a smooth rock and knock over a 300 year old bonsai, I was surprised that despite our frenzied tourist rush I did become calm, and filled with The Deep Thoughts.

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    I am amazed by this staking technique.

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    Moss and lichens everywhere. It’s adds another level of interest to leafless trees.

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    The Sand and Stone Garden

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    I took this one while resting on a bench inside a pagoda. Sitting here made me wish we had a garden like this in Toronto that I could visit and sit in quietly for hours on end. Alas we had things to see and places to go which is kind of contrary to the contemplativeness of the Japanese Garden.

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    I love the sleek stones against the mossy green ground.

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    More moss. More GREEN.

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    I tried to be quiet but this camera shutter lands with a deep “thud.” I think I may have upset this vistitor’s solitude. Sorry dude.
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Gardening Mad

Because I haven’t done so in a while, be advised that this post contains cursing.

I received an email from a reader recently who was “disappointed” by the current contest prize pack which is comprised of assorted items from Julie Jackson’s Subversive Cross-stitch line. My initial reaction to the letter was, “To each her own.” I have a sensibility and taste that appreciates Julie’s biting sense of humor while others like this particular reader believe it to be, “the most insulting thing [they] have seen in a long time.”

No big deal.

But then I thought about it. And I started to wonder just what it is that people might find so offensive about Julie’s work and the only thing I could think of is that it’s got to be the cursing. I can’t imagine what else it could be because though Julie’s messages might not be work-place appropriate they aren’t hateful or cruel and they certainly aren’t insulting. They are witty, sarcastic, direct, and sometimes angry — healthy and therapeutic responses to things in the world that really do suck; things like cancer, the crap we sometimes put ourselves through during the holidays, the lies told by politicians, working at a job that is spiritually draining: the list goes on.

I love gardening. And beyond that I see gardening as an active pursuit in a world that encourages passivity. For that reason and others that I won’t get into now, gardening has the potential to affect positive change in ourselves and the world around us. Working in the garden brings me joy, excitement, courage, and solitude. Digging my hands in the soil and nurturing a plant fills me with a sense of wonder about the world, and teaches me to embrace failure and learn patience.

I want to share that experience with other people and I want to encourage more people to take it up for themselves.

But I need to say, and have been trying for some time to find a way to say that this experience is not all about sunshine and roses. Like all humans, I am a person with pain who has suffered and struggled. I have come to realize over time just how much gardening is a therapy and a way for me to nurture myself, find solace, and release anger and frustration. I can’t imagine how many of us would have stuck with this “hobby” for any length of time if it were simply about puttering about and making things look pretty. I came to be a passionate gardener because I NEEDED it. Life includes struggle. Sometimes I am grateful for that struggle but sometimes I’m angry and damned if I’m going to accept a world that doesn’t provide space for people like me to punch the air, laugh like a maniac, and say fuck it once in a while!

And because I am a gardener, and these experiences are a part of life, a part of who I am, who I have been, and who I will become, they are not inappropriate or out of context even here, on a website about gardening.

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Thou Shalt Not Fuss

Guest post by Jeffery W. Petersen

Relax. The rules of gardening were made to be broken.

Yesterday, I had a cup of coffee with my neighbour who does not garden because she feels she doesn’t know enough. She mows. She weeds. She hides out from her garden when she doesn’t want to do these things. Her garden is her enemy, and she doesn’t plant anything.

This was distressing for me. I went out and bought her a packet of radish seeds, “Just put them in the ground and stand back,” I said. As we talked, I realized how much she wanted to garden, but how fear was preventing her. She was frightened of not being good enough, and isn’t that the most corrosive thing, in gardening as in life?

As I walked back to my own patch of weeds and chaos, I began to compose (or was that compost?) the basic rules of gardening, according to me.

First Commandment
There are no commandments. Just as nobody raises a child by following a child care book to the letter, nobody builds a garden by following commandments. Just accept the cycle of life, death and screw-ups.

Second Commandment
Have fun. If you get a kick out of the exotic shape of a cactus, go for it. Like garden gnomes? Get some.

Third Commandment
Decide what sort of garden you want. What do you want to do in your garden? Entertain, relax, make love, make mud pies or play backyard football? Make the garden you want, not the one the neighbors think you should have.

Fourth Commandment
Look at your space and your time, and come to some reasonable settlement between reality and the second and third commandments. Then allow yourself to feel OK about this.

Fifth Commandment
Think about your climate. Walk around your neighborhood looking at when the long-time residents plant out their seedlings, and what they plant. Don’t rely on plant labels, which tend to be too optimistic.

Sixth Commandment
Know your soil. No short cut here, I’m afraid. The main thing to know is whether your soil is acidic or alkaline. You can get a cheap soil-testing kit for this at many nurseries. Unless you like self-punishment, don’t try to grow prize-winning camellias in alkaline soil or prize-winning onions in acidic soil.

Seventh Commandment
Look after your soil. Almost any soil problem can be fixed, and usually the answer is earthworms, which means organic matter. Mulch with abandon; you can even use newspaper.

Eighth Commandment
Watch the light. Plan if you wish, but for most of us, garden plans are made to be broken. However, it is a good idea to know where the light falls. Sit in the garden (preferably with a cup of coffee, or a beer, whichever you prefer) and watch the sun and shade.

Ninth Commandment
Remember that things grow. You won’t do this, of course. I don’t know a single gardener who hasn’t at some stage over-planted a big tree too close to something. And be prepared to thin out seedlings.

Tenth Commandment
Trust nature and go softly. Don’t assume that every problem requires panic and massive intervention. Things were growing in the world for a long while before human beings came along. Most things, pushed in soil, will grow. And isn’t that a wonderful thing?

Tip: Forgive and Forget
When you break a commandment, forgive yourself and don’t turn your back on the garden. Remember, you need it more than it needs you.

Jeffery Petersen is an Australian freelance food and travel writer living in Montana.

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The Perfect Garden

Or “How I Learned to Relax and Start Enjoying My Garden”

This year, so far, has marked my ‘best gardening year’ ever. The amount of energy that has been placed on all things plant related has increased exponentially with every year–with this year being the biggest increase yet. It’s not just energy and effort. While I have put a lot of money into small things in past years, this year I’ve placed more emphasis on the big things; I built a planter box and restocked a garden that I had lifted in the fall because I was told the land was going to be used by the City for of all things–a garden. The irony of that situation hasn’t escaped me.

It’s no surprise that my effort has increased. The more knowledge I gain, the more I want to do. I spend the entire off-season planning my actions in anticipation of the growing season.

I edit the presentation of my garden

This year has marked the first year that I’ve really been able to stand back and feel good about what I’ve accomplished. And yet I’ve realized that while I am excited about certain contained elements, I still have insecurity about the whole in its entirety. Despite the fact that I am having my ‘best gardening year’ ever, I can’t help but feel like what I’ve done is still second rate. I’ve already begun to feel the dread, shame and guilt that comes with the inevitable wilting and plant death that arises as the intolerable heat of summer presses on.

When I take pictures of the garden, I take pictures from certain angles or get in on close-ups of specific plants sometimes even specific portions of plants are dissected within the frame instead of showing things as they are. In short, I edit the presentation of my garden. In my proudest moments I talk up my accomplishments, and yet when confronted with a real live audience I’m afraid that I’ll finally be exposed for the fraud that I am. I spend the entire visit apologizing for the wilted sweet basil or the lemon balm with rust disease. I point out my short-comings for fear that they’ll be quietly detected, observed and noted by the visitor. I feel obligated to explain in detail the circumstances surrounding my failures with specific plants. It’s worse when other plant people are around because I know that they know exactly where I’ve gone wrong.

Here I am, a person who admires imperfection in everything–natural or otherwise, and yet I feel insecure when it happens in my home, my created environment. I love walking through a fallow field or alongside the railroad tracks discovering weeds and wildflowers. I am mesmerized by the plant life that exists amongst urban decay. Where only the toughest, most resilient plants push their way through the cracks and crevices of broken pavement and gravel. So why can’t I see the beauty in my own natural inclination towards messiness?

Garden magazines are like porn for plant lovers

Recently a fellow gardener and friend voiced the same concerns and insecurities about her own garden. Frustrations with her own garden had left her with the feeling that the more she learned about gardening, the more she screwed up. That gardening is really only for the rich who have the time or money to create perfection. She announced that she wasn’t going to read gardening magazines anymore because she couldn’t live up to the standards of flawlessness they present.

At that moment it dawned on me just how similar gardening magazines are to fashion magazines. They show us perfection in order to inspire us to covet what we can’t have simply, cheaply or naturally. Everyone knows that they take photos under certain lighting conditions and from specific angles in order to hide the flaws. Anyone who has ever been to a gardening centre knows that plants don’t come cheap and neither do the tools and endless gadgets that we’re convinced are required to maintain those plants. Yet we all buy into it and want it for ourselves no matter how crazy it makes us. Garden magazines are like porn for plant lovers. They inspire us, but they also present a hyper reality that messes up our perspective. Before we know it gardening isn’t about spontaneity and experimentation but about setting up fantastical situations, using the natural world to create unnatural settings.

It’s not just the magazines. It’s the whole culture. The TV shows, the books, the pressure among neighbours to keep up with the Joneses and conform within the standards set by the rest of the block. Who sets those standards? Who decides what is a weed and what is a rarity? People who allow natural, indigenous weeds to grow in their gardens are reprimanded by their city for allowing the noxious plants to thrive, as if they were aiding and abetting a criminal.

Is my garden just a glorified ego trip?

Maybe I’m just giving in to my own neurosis. I wonder if I’m subconsciously contributing to this problem when I practice horticulture. Do I in turn make other people insecure with my super close-up photos and edited presentations of my own reality? Am I improving anything by cleaning up the garbage and digging out the weeds? Do I even have a right to be pissed off when dogs trample over my garden and mess up my efforts? Or am I only projecting my own insecurities onto what was once just an empty space, ignored, taken for granted but also enjoyed because it was free of status or the preciousness that makes a garden special and a vacant space just a pile of dirt.

To some extent I’ve realised that I want people to enjoy my garden, but only from a distance. Look but don’t touch. Admire it, but if I catch you in the act of chopping off my flowers, I’ll bite your head off. What does that say about me? I put my stamp on public property and now I’ve got some sense of entitlement to it. Is my garden just the physical manifestation of a glorified ego trip?

I don’t think I’m going to stop gardening anytime soon. I haven’t lost the fun and excitement that comes with learning new things and messing about. I just have to stop and check myself once and a while–make sure that I’m not turning into too much of an “adult” and making a fun part of life into a distorted reflection of my own self.

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Panic Suburbs

“The sky above… was the colour of television tuned to a dead channel.” — William Gibson, “Necromancer”

From “Panic Encyclopedia” by Arthur and Marilouise Kroker

Most of all, it is the lawns which are sinister. Fuji green and expansive, they are a visual relief to the freeway and its accompanying tunnel vision. Even ahead of the golden arches, they are welcoming as the approach of a new urban sign-value. The frenzy sites of a decaying Christian culture where reclining lawn chairs, people in the sun, barbecues and summer-time swimming pools can give off the pleasant odors of an imploding Calvinist culture, playing psychologically at the edge of the parasite and the predator.

And the Fuji green lawn? That has already been chemically sprayed to prevent the return of the animal kingdom. And why not? The suburban lawn can be so pleasantly malevolent because it is the aesthetic playground where three bourgeois ideological values intersect: a happy celebration of private property values; the ascendant sign-value of leisure time activity as the prime morality of post-liberal society; and the principle of exclusivity (from sexual relations to family recreation) as the rising star of Christian culture at the end of the twentieth-century.

Indeed, in the old days, lawns were only for English aristocracy who could afford their maintenance. Today, all of this has been swiftly reversed, and we all do obedience to the lawn, that is if we have not paved it. This is a nice irony given the history of paving stones in the struggle for bourgeois freedom. In the suburban suicide sites – on those chemically glowing lawns – the struggle has been won.

In advanced capitalist society, the majority of us live in suburbs. Effectively, this relegates the old sociological paradigm of city/country, along with the fortress mentality, to the trash can.

Lawn care, a real growth industry, replicates the same economic activity as the cosmetics industry a decade earlier. Keeping America beautiful now requires the cosmetics' approach to space…

The postmodern suburb ushers in the new (cosmetic) style of “real imitation life.” Its appearance was signalled by the movie, The Invasion of the Body Snatchers, where progressively the pods grow the physiognomy of the everyday American, complete with the cloning of the shopping mall mentality. Here each comes equipped, at least nominally, with a Harlequin life programed to Scott Peck’s The Road Less Travelled. Each person in his or her own way “born again,” the better to imitate the Way. Not that the Way need be religious or fundamentalist, but rather a way of life that grows on you, feeds from you, parasites you. It’s the postmodern suburb, therefore, as a perfect ideological screen: lasered by flickering TV images, inscribed by shifting commodity-values, and interpellated by all of the violence, love and bickering voices of Mommy-Daddy-Me.

In these pleasurable sites of indifferent suicides, mutant biology also explodes into vacant fields transforming them into social networks on the grid pattern of urban development. The measured lawns indicate a new social cosmology reflecting the changing face of the suburbanite. Lawn care, a real growth industry, replicates the same economic activity as the cosmetics industry a decade earlier. Keeping America beautiful now requires the cosmetics’ approach to space, as the mirroring of the cosmology of the lived experience of the self. The fusion of the lawn care specialist and the beautician creates the “unconsciousness” of post-hoc suburban life. The aestheticization of all the post-lawns as the ruling metaphysic, then, of the new middle class.

Politically, the impact of the shedding of the city by the suburb has led to the practical abolition of resistance and rebellion. Where modernity linked urban centers by communication routes, postmodernity differs through the creation of suburbs as sites of minimal power. As a low intensity field, the suburb has multiple points of entry and exit, making it invulnerable to attack by any conventional political means short of bureaucracy. Biologically driven, the suburban epicenters appear much like weeds in a field, constantly bleeding the central claims to power whether this be of a capital or of a garden. Having permanently left the city for a safer site, power can only be reconstituted in the absences by media holograms. Having lost any legitimate claim on the real, the city is forced by the suburb to engage in fictive and hyper-aesthetic claims as a way of governing the imitative process.

Ultimately, the origin of the suburb could be traced to the demos in classical thought. The country, or what is outside the city, has successfully appropriated the political posture of democracy, changing forever the way in which citizens and assemblies are constructed. No longer the participatory democracy of the New England town assemblies, but now, suburban democracy or life outside the class-ridden town or city of former times, as a gyroscope to political activity. Similar to the reaction one gets to the request to load the dishwasher, local suburban politics has a dampening effect on life. Having shed class politics, suburban democracy also has little need for interest-group politics. Here, politics has to do with the aestheticization of lifestyle: boundaries (roads), waste systems (sewers), education and recreation for the young, and the prevention of the wholesale invasion of private property – continued small invasions of the property principle being acceptable. True to the spirit of indifference, the suburbanite only calls for a limited immune response to parasitical intrusion.

The political stability of the suburb comes from the large number of cloned, constituted spaces such as plazas, which ensure that the organism will replicate and be preserved. The genotype is easily recognizable through the sequencing of fast food restaurants, car dealerships, gas bars, carpet outlets, and discount stores. Of course, there are no politics here. In fact, there is nothing to do other than to grow. This biological metaphor is pursued vigorously in other growth areas: tennis, bridge, bible study groups and exercise classes.

From the beginning, TV producers have recognized that their edge is in furthering and exploiting this boredom. Thus, the initial success of the soaps and of TV itself. Without the suburbs, TV would not have so easily displaced other forms of cultural activity. So complete has been the suburban cultural victory (entertainment as the growth industry par excellence) that culture could only turn to TV through the PBS (Public Broadcasting System), which emerged from the mutual desperation (for suburban attention) of the centralized state and of equally centralized cultural organizations. This cultural foray against the spreading indifference of green lawns cannot compete against the postmodern “rural idiocy” (Marx), or as Blake has it, “vegetable consciousness.”

The future of America may or may not bring a black President, a woman President, a Jewish President, but it most certainly always will have a suburban President. A President whose senses have been defined by the suburbs, where lakes and public baths mutate into back yards and freeways, where walking means driving, where talking means telephoning, where watching means TV, and where living means real, imitation life.

Panic Suburbs was originally published in “Panic Encyclopedia” by Arthur and Marilouise Kroker, New World Perspectives, Cultural Texts Series, 1989. Reprinted by permission.

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