REWILDING
One warm spring day weeding my gardens, I looked down at a fresh patch of volunteer madrone seedlings. For over a decade, I’d been removing madrone seedlings from the same patch in my garden; these tall, broadleaf evergreen native trees weren’t part of my garden plan so, in my mind, they had to go. This time was different. I left them alone.
Even though I have been a ferocious, passionate gardener all of my adult life, I had been struggling with my garden. I went through periods of resenting the work it takes to maintain one, especially on the large scale I like to operate, and last year’s Pacific Northwest “Heat Dome” made watering and weeding particularly onerous. Unlike many of the stressed cultivars, these madrones were shiny, robust, bright green and thriving (despite the numerous diseases presently attacking the species). Nature was silently screaming at me: it (or she) had a better plan and needed me to stop my human nonsense and step aside. So I did, and I am no longer a gardener.
Horticulture has deep roots in my family. My grandparents started a plant nursery that was passed down to his son, and now my cousin holds the shovel. My great great grandfather also ran a family plant nursery sometime in the 1800s. For fun, I spent two years working toward a degree in horticulture.
Once I told a life coach that I wanted an element of surprise in my garden. Wisely, she questioned how I could create surprise for me in a garden I had myself created. The answer, I know now, is to let the land go rogue. Wild spaces are filled with surprises. By design, my garden has no plan and now, with my gardener’s hand mostly out of the way, plants and animals create their own glorious order for me to discover.
I haven’t completely booted the non-native plants from my property. They serve a practical purpose near the house. But, I’m gradually transitioning the rest of my 1.25 acre to the forest and meadow it wants to be. I no longer want a garden; I want what is wild. I want land that feeds the earth and its creatures. It’s no longer about me or for me, although it is, paradoxically, becoming the most beautiful and satisfying space I have ever watched over. I put myself no longer in the center of the landscape but far off to the side, where I should be, just lending a hand (mostly pulling out invasive weeds.)
Some might argue with me: How do you define a native when the plant world is always evolving? Who are you to say? They are valid questions. But, while we discuss the finer points, I’m going to continue to rewild my land. The madrone seedlings and all of their verdant native friends have made the most convincing argument of all: nature’s logic.
For the rest who are intrigued by this idea, note that Douglas Tallamay and many others have much to say on this subject so if you haven’t read his book, “Nature’s Best Hope: A New Approach to Conservation that Starts in Your Yard”, go do it right now.
In this formerly weedy lawn, I spread wood chips yesterday. Next spring, I’ll put in some native woodland understory plants expanding the reach of the Douglas fir forest you see in the background.
“garden
gär′dn
noun
1. A plot of land used for the cultivation of flowers, vegetables, herbs, or fruit.
2. Grounds laid out with flowers, trees, and ornamental shrubs and used for recreation or display.”
