GREEN NEW & VIEWS
small bush. I sang songs to the plant, checked on it daily, felt the mois- ture of the soil with my fingers, and noticed the way it leaned toward the sunlight. I got to know that bean in an intimate way. Tending and caring for plants brings us into relationship with our gardens whereby familiarity and intimacy develop. We pay attention — or, as it is summarized in permaculture’s first principle — we ob - serve and interact. Gardening With Our Senses When we begin to pay attention, sight is often the first sense to guide us. This is one reason I love to place gardens near areas we frequent, ideally daily. Each time we walk by on our way to the car, the trash, or the mailbox, we take in our plants, often without even realizing it. Over time, these glances deepen what our eyes are able to see. We begin to notice subtle changes: how the vibrancy of spring green becomes muted in the intense heart of summer; how a once-lustrous leaf dulls; how some plants droop in the afternoon heat while others remain upright and strong. Sight teaches us through repetition and familiarity; not through a single diagnostic look, but through many small moments of noticing. Does the plant have the nutrition it needs? Enough light? Enough water? Our eyes can register these signals, of- fering an intuitive read on the plant’s well-being. But much of life is hidden from view, unfolding beneath leaf and soil, or blending into its surroundings. As I write this, we are in the depths of winter. Outside, snow blankets the ground, and the plant world sleeps beneath it. Insects lie dormant in leaves and stems, or exist only as eggs, awaiting warmer temperatures to hatch. Birds have flown south or are quietly conserving their energy during the cold. Each year I am struck by the stillness of winter and by the contrast of the season that follows.
With the first awakenings of spring comes the song of spring peep - ers, and thus begins the return of sound to the landscape — the chorus of life’s diversity and abundance. What is the tune of your garden? A simple song or a symphony? Lis - ten for the drunken buzz of a bumblebee leaving a giant squash flow - er, or the hum of honeybees covering your peach tree’s blossoming branches. The morning chorus of birds. The throb of summer cicadas. These sounds tell us our gardens are home and sustenance to more than ourselves, and remind us their edges blur into the larger living world beyond the garden gate. If sight and sound orient us to life around us, smell draws us closer. It collapses distance and reveals processes hidden from view. In this way, smell deepens our knowing. I have found this especially true when becoming familiar with com- posts and soils. My first experience of sensory soil sampling was with my dad when I was about ten years old. He had returned from a visit to my uncle’s farm in northern Ontario. Though I don’t know why — as my dad wasn’t a gardener — he presented me with a bag of soil col - lected from the forest floor and enthusiastically invited me to feel and smell the black earth. I took a handful and held it up to my nose. It felt soft and spongy and smelled earthy and woodsy, with a hint of chocolate-cake sweet- ness. It smelled like it held the soul of the boreal forest from where it came. What wonderful world of microbes was I communing with? The nose knows this is fertile soil, ground on which one could live and be nourished. Smell is also particularly useful when assessing compost. A wide spectrum of composts exists in the marketplace. While I always ask
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PATHWAYS—Spring 26—33
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