"The immortal truth and beauty of Nature"

John Muir, a writer and one of the most significant environmental activists in the United States (we have him to thank for Yosemite National Park), wrote passionately about wildness and wilderness, plants and mountains, creatures large and tiny, and above all, the inherent value of Nature. Although he wasn't necessarily focused on the cultivated landscapes of gardens, his words and ideas inform my attitude and approach toward both national parks and my own garden, which is certainly cultivated, planned, and constructed, but not fussy and precise. My own natural space may be a pale comparison to the grandeur and scale of such parks as Yosemite, Yellowstone, and Glacier, but it brings me a similar feeling of contentment and perspective. I came across this quote today from Muir's essay, "Cedar Keys:" 

"I joyfully return to the immortal truth and immortal beauty of Nature."

Recently, I've been working hard to install new beds for squash and melons, as well as planting hundreds of zinnia, sunflower, and marigold seeds, and new shade plants to replace the ones killed by the arctic blast this winter. Yesterday, I finished the planting and sat down to enjoy the results of my labors. As I sat still and observed, I felt compelled to write about what I saw and heard:

Fat, industrious black and gold bumblebees buzz loudly from dying flower to dying flower on the nearly spent pale pink azalea. Two other azaleas crowd nearby, sill lush and heavy with firm, open blossoms in white and fuschia, but the dying pink flowers must be sweeter for they hold the bees' attention the most. Zinnia and marigold sprouts show two, four, six leaves, ornamental grasses now feature more thirsty green than dry hay-colored remnants of last season's growth, and the Dutch Irises rise above the rock wall in defiance of last year's harsh chewing abuse by the local groundhog. The oak leaf hydrangea dangles dried brown flowers while sporting crowns of sage green leaves from nearly the same spot on each branch. Clematis vines grow rapidly at this time of year, seemingly inches a day, as the sun heats up and the wind softens. 

Robins, cardinals, catbirds, sparrows, hawks, crows, and buzzards all make appearances on land and in the air under a blue sky whispered with streaks of white clouds. Bullfrogs harumph deep resonances from the creek out back. The first mosquitoes follow me inside, smelling dinner. The Russian Sage looks dead and dry, but on each thin stalk and branch, silvery green lace stands tall, and the raspberry and blackberry canes are growing so vigorously, they seem like an advertisement for organic gardening. 

The garden is alive. Lush, vibrant, and healthy. I look forward to witnessing its changes each day, for there is always something new to see, smell, hear, or experience. This tranquil oasis bursting with color, texture, and life brings me back to me. A needed reminder that petty human behavior is like so much pollen blowing out of the trees - hardly worth noticing even though it makes you miserable for a short time, because in the end, the pollen washes away, leaving the constancy of nature - something greater and worth more than the minor temporary annoyance caused by the blowing pollen. 

It may not be a national park, but my garden helps me understand what Muir meant when he wrote about joyfully returning to the immortal truth and beauty of Nature.