In the best sense, a way of life could be defined as a life steeped in family, culture, tradition, and history.  My gardening life is very much a product of my scientist/gardener Mom, my vintage (a polite version of my age-nearing 60), my early and practical early experience as a gardener- long before I gardened professionally. I am a designer who has a history of digging the holes and dragging the hoses. That history-a big part of this.  My way of life-put your hands and your back to the work. I have an instinctive distrust of landscape architects, as I suspect architecture is a lot more about resolved drawings than a flesh and blood phlox going on. I like single flowers, structured landscapes, a dressy presentation in front of the house- in respect of the neighborhood;- and straightforward design.  I was raised never to make someone work too hard to understand my point of view-that would be rude.  As a designer, my idea has to be there-be clearly there-in the leaves and the bark, or I need to start over. 

Sometimes I go to galleries, or museums, wanting, needing to read about what I am looking at. Some art I see I would not view as art if it did not have a home in a museum.  The streets do what the streets do best, as they have no pressure to be art. Look, and be convinced, or not.  In truth, I believe that any art which requires verbal explanation is a visual failure. This is my way of life talking.

My way of life is but an alternate phrase for my point of view.  All of my history and culture wells up around me-whether I am shopping for a gift for a dear friend, writing a thank you note, choosing a doctor, handling a problem, deciding on the right perennial for a spot.  Everything I bring to bear on any issue is directly related to something from my way of life.

I am older, and my kids are cardigan corgis.  Any and every dog gets my interest, and my time.  My way of life has much to do with dogs.  If you knew how much they occupied the front 10 percent of my attention-I might be embarrassed.  I could go on to include MCat, and my resident toads, and clients dogs, stray dogs, the hummingbirds that visit my pots-my way of life is much about the sanctity of nature’s creatures.  Please do not ask for details on this; I am sure all of you have your own stories not so different than mine.  Howard sleeping, draped over my feet right now-a solidly comforting way of life.

My garden does not always act how I wish it would. Plants languish, shrubs get overgrown and threaten my sense of balance and place.  The helleborus argutifolius of my dreams-some six years into growing them on-I have piffle to show for my effort.  I am tossing them out this year; my way of life would suggest that when you finally figure out what does not work, cry over the spilt milk as long as you need, and move on.   

As much as my history and culture enriches my gardening life, some things are not at all about a way of life-they are about habit.  A habit is vastly different than a way of life.  I have a routine-God help anyone who stands in the way of how I have always done things.    That said, I do make an effort to sort out what truly comes from the way of life it has taken almost 60 years to develop, and what blind habit I inflict on myself. 

Should you hear the word habit, the hair on the back of your neck will no doubt stand up.  What I do habitually-it might be great, but it might be a stale and useless excuse. Though I might vigorously defend my eye to the future, habit weighs heavily on me. I dread trying new plant varieties-my habit is to trust what I have known to work over the course of my gardening lifetime. I spend plenty of time investigating what is new-in defense of my habits-but the truth be told, I am happy to let other people try the new things. I can be convinced to try something new-should I make the effort.  As I have no problem encouraging clients to discard their habit, and think fresh-I should do better, too. 

My way of life- naturally I treasure this.  But an interest in those things that do not seem to immediately fit can provide balance. My Carefree Beauty roses are very pink.  I like that silliness going on in that somberly evergreen room.  They relieve a certain stuffiness.  All of those pink petals on a June day make me smile.  The space is balanced.  Balance is very important element in a landscape.  What you put great weight to may need some counterbalance. A formal allee of trees could be all the more exquisite given a casually placed chaise, and a pot of flowers. The single orange tilip in an ocean of yellow ones-this makes the planting personal,-better than perfect.   Distinguishing a way of life from a habit-a worthwhile expenditure of time and effort.  When I find myself saying I do not have time for this or that, I sometimes suspect it is my relationship with habit that is talking.       

 What in your garden stands pat, from habit?  What in your garden reflects your way of life? This opinion post might be all over the map, with bits and insights not so beautifully arranged.  Sorry.  On my mind, in a not neatly thought out way-a question.  What should I stand behind, given my gardening history? What should I entertain in the most serious way and welcome, in spite of my habit? 

If you are a serious gardener, you understand all and everything about gardening angst. Plans and plants in concert-a very volatile combintion.  Regularly I wonder if I should tear out this or that and start over.  We gardeners fly low. By this I mean, we notice every little plant, or combination, or weed.  Should you be flying low over your garden, I am quite sure you could see what beautifully represents your point of view.  The tough part of what I do habitually-I have stopped seeing it.

When I get home after work, I head right outside.  Everything is budding up now, from my giant maple on down. It is plenty warm enough to be outside-what could be better?  The deep clear blue evening sky is a perfect foil the chartreuse flowers now in full bloom on said Norway maple.  Acer Platanoides can grow to fifty feet; I estimate mine is close to forty feet high.  The deep furrows on the bark that bear the scars of Milo’s frustrated attempts to climb up and after after the squirrels that torment him- another clue to its age.  The Norways have the most beautiful of all the maple flowers.  Arranged in three inch diameter clusters on the stems, their color is electrically charged living spring green.  This old tree has been president and chief executive officer of my fountain garden since I moved here fifteen years ago.  Its surface rooting and shade make it the organizing metaphor of everything trying to grow underneath it.  It is a water hog; on a hot day in July, it probably takes up 90 gallons.  Much of what goes on in the growing world cannot be visually detected; a lot of the action is underground.  Plants of this scale dramatically influence the world around them.  You might think of them as an ecosystem unto themselves- when you plan to garden in their vicinity.  This effort will help you be a more successful gardener, on the ground.

Giant old trees have been photographed, written about, preserved and revered in landscapes all over the planet. The redwoods in California are the stuff of legends. Giant trees are home to all manner of wildlife-our native American bald eagles nest high off the ground.   Vicious weather that took down great numbers of old trees in England some years back-big news. Some of the great old trees in my greater community live on in old cemeteries.  Should I ever retire, I would want to visit and study the landscapes in old cemeteries, in neighborhoods-for what grows there- undisturbed.  Though I have made a career of churning up and remaking, I have a great respect for that which has been left alone to age beautifully.

I live on a corner in an urban neighborhood. I have a number of Norway maples planted in the right of way-that strip between the sidewalk and the road.  They are struggling; it is a heartbreak to watch.  My city does not care for them.  They do not prune; nature prunes them via ice storms and high winds. They do not treat illness. I see some people in my neighborhood caring for their row trees-I thank them every time I drive by their houses.  I have one Norway with astonishingly large bracket fungus; these fruiting bodies-the physical evidence of a massive fungal infection, are a sign its life will not be long now.  The roots of all of these giant trees are dogged by concrete as far as the eye can see.  But they live on, no matter how injured they might be from physical damage, neglect, or thoughtless planting or placement. I so admire their steel. Their will to live is a very beautiful thing to witness.

I live in an old neighborhood-many of the houses were built between 1920 and 1930.  My house is 80 years old this year.  There are trees of age here, there, and all over my neighborhood.  The most beautiful saucer magnolias I have ever had the privilege to see are right around the block from me. The Norway maple in my back yard-old.  I don’t disturb it much.  I do see that it gets water in dry spells, and pruning when it needs it.  I do not do much, but it greatly endows and enriches my gardening life. It screens my view of both my neighbors houses, and our community electric lines, to the rear.  It encourages me to turn my eyes to the sky in the spring. The corgis love the shade in the heat of the summer.  It is a most stately and beautiful plant.  The largest in my yard.  It oversees plenty, silently, benignly. It has yet to whine, fuss, negotiate, or hold forth. It roots vigorously and thickly in one small spot that I plant with annuals every year-this does not mean we have a battle; we have a yearly conversation. 

My eyes turn towards the skies in late April-I would not want to miss the Norway maple, blooming.  My skies have other residents, besides those topmost maple branches, blooming.  The birds are back, and flying.  Last night, I had my camera pointed skyward.  Streaking across my lens, a mini jet.  Buck and I  talk about that plane.  Who is on board?  Where are they going-or from whence are they returning?  Buck’s take-a captain of industry is travelling.  Who are the captains of industry?  No doubt, I believe I live in the best country on the planet.  My country welcomes, houses, and protects a most intelligent, imaginative, loyal, hardworking and outspoken group of people from sea to shining sea. Those captains of industry-those people that organize, energize, imagine, invent, create,and protect-I imagine those people that are flying headlong across my sky on a Saturday night.

Like those giant trees who bear this wind, that infection-the daily give and take-I greatly admire the captains of industry. There are those people that organize a space, preside over an eco-system, think through how to help people with serious illness.  They put people to work.  They greet the future with a vision.  They are tireless, incredibly intelligent, and driven by what they believe in. They work around the clock.  They think through and travel ahead of time.    I would not want to do without them any more than I would want to do without my big maple.

    Travelling overhead last night-whoever you are-many thanks.

On occasion I will have that client who tells me I need to convince them that they should grow such and such a plant, or reconfigure a portion of their garden like so.  Hmm.  On the subject of what seems convincing, I do admire those landscapes that seem to be all of a piece.  A clear vision, consistent language and execution is very much about what I do, and what I hope to do.  A great garden feels like a world unto itself-complete, confident, and convincing.  The French royal gardens designed and built by Andre LeNotre in the 19th century are certainly a world unto themselves in every detail.  Who does not admire how French garden designers were and are able to edit and edit again?  Their gardens are finely distilled creations that make you feel as though in addition to seeing them, you have had a generous glass of some fabulously complex and satisfying French wine.  I may experience a landscape and drink the attendant wine many times, and be convinced of its beauty-but this does not convince me that I should have such a garden myself.

Some gardens are unforgettable, they are so completely convincing.  Many years ago I saw an old Victorian house, with a rectangular vegetable patch off center in the front yard.  In the spring, there would be rows of lettuce of many different varieties, each separated by a row of orange marigolds. The patch would evolve over the summer, as she planted vegetables of the season. She did not grow every vegetable available to her-she chose to plant only certain vegetables, with specific varieties of flowers. Though the garden would evolve over the summer, it had that unmistakeable look of belonging to someone with a definite point of view.  I have never forgotten the garden; it was charmingly believable.  I went so far as to try to imagine its owner, and what she might be like.  Did this garden convince me to have one like it-no.  I was only convinced that how she gardened genuinely represented her idea of beautiful. 

A convincing garden is much like a country of its own.  There is a visual language, rules, boundaries.  Neighborhoods are laid out just so.  There are roads, stop signs, places to park oneself, shelter; one may or may not need to ask for directions.  There may be a park, or a sports field.  There will be a government in place, though the style may vary greatly; someone is most assuredly in charge.  Some governing bodies are quite democratic; I am sure Buck would describe mine as a not always  so benevolent monarchy. He is funny, that one-but he has a point.  I have staved off every request he has made for a few tomato plants.  We tried them one year.  What a terrific amount of room they took, and what a mess they made, for not much fruit.  I have adhered to my no vegetable zone policy ever since. Buck actually likes his weekly trip to Farm Boy Produce on Auburn Road; everyone is happy. One of the great and adult pleasures of a garden is that you get to be in charge of how it looks-for better or for worse.  On certain issues, I am happy to entertain other ideas-but I reserve the right to refuse to be convinced.

In my opinion, design for clients is not so much about convincing them to do this or that.  I like the word convincing as an adverb, much better than a verb.  Too many things work in a landscape for me to to insist that what I have in mind is the right course.  There are as many right courses as there are people who make a career of persuading others.  When someone is trying to persuade me, I cannot help but feel their underlying assumption is that they know what is right.  Their job is to get me to recognize that. Isn there not great potential for irritation-someone with the attitude that they know to a certainty what is right for your garden?  I find the best design relationships are just that-a relationship.  Any client can assume I design with them in mind-as much as I am able.  If the design interests them, there must be something in it that strikes a chord, and resonates.  Prints can be hard to interpret with a 3-D understanding;I make every effort to explain clearly what leads me to any given plan.  Explaining is vastly different, and much more friendly than that persuasion business.  Clients may say yes or no, or maybe- with this change.  They are, after all, in charge of their garden. 

There all always exceptions.  I will never forget an older Italian business man who came into the shop. He loved anything Italian, every Italian garden, and his business-a big business he had made from the ground up.  He bought a very old marble fragment of a lion-as I recall, the two back paws were missing.  Though there surely had been a marble base at one time, it no longer existed. The sculpture was Italian in origin, and feeling-and large.  It had to have been four feet long and two feet wide; the marble was greatly deteriorated from age. He also purchased a simple, even larger English stone cistern.  His idea was to place and prop up the marble lion in the cistern, and display the two, together, in the lobby of his building.  I could neither imagine these two things in concert, nor could I imagine them in a sizeable lobby of a business- but he was sure it would be beautiful, and brushed me off.  I was not convinced, until I saw them installed; the end result was spectacular.  The sculpture had great presence and dignity-I was not able to see what he saw, until they were placed, and lit.  He insisted that the lion appear to be rising out of the cistern; we obliged.  Not that he needed it in any way, I was persuaded by what I saw. 

I suppose that once you invite a designer to play a part in your garden, there is that element of wanting to be convinced.  Should you not be, there are lots of other choices.  Some choices seem not to make very good horticultural sense, but I have seen plenty of plants grow where all my instincts would indicate a no-go. I have been fooled by nature plenty of times.  I am convinced this will happen many more times before I am done designing and gardening.  Clients speaking back-this can fool me; this can delight me.