Strictly speaking, the French word vernissage speaks to the opening of an art exhibition. I learned the word recently from a client with whom I have a history spanning 25 years. This speaks a lot to the value of a long term commitment; I have learned plenty from her, and from her garden, over the years.
But back to “vernissage”. It has a decidedly spring ring to it. I expect the winter season to turn to spring as it always has. But every spring opening has its distinct feature. Last year’s spring was notable for its icy debut. Grape hyacinths and daffodils glittering and giant branches crashing to the ground. This year, a different kind of drama altogether. My first sign of spring was the birds singing, early in the morning. It was a bit of a shock, realizing how long it had been since I had heard the birds. Why the break of my winter this year is about hearing the singing-who knows.
Much of what I love about landscape design has to do with the notion of second chances. I have an idea. I put it to paper. I do the work of installing it. Then I wait to hear I the answer back. It is my most important work-to be receptive to hearing what gets spoken back. The speeches come from everywhere-the design that could be better here and more finished there, the weather, the placement and planting final exam, the land whose form is beautiful but whose drainage is heinous; the singing comes from everywhere. I make changes, and then more changes. I wait for this to grow in and that to mature. I stake up the arborvitae hedge gone over with ice, and know it will be two years-the recovery.
But no matter what the last season dished out, I get my spring. I can compost my transgressions. The sun shines on the good things, and the not so good things, equally-so for sure take stock as you listen to the birds singing again. I can clean up winter’s debris. My eye is fresh. I can stake what the heavy snow crushed-I can plan for this, and prepare for my vernissage-the opening of the garden. Later, I can celebrate the shade. I can sculpt ground. I can move all manner of soil, plant seeds, move, and renovate.
What I have learned can leaven the ground under my feet-if I let it. Spring will scoop me up. Does this not sound like a life? I can hear the birds now; louder.
Vernissage. Think of it.
Spring
