(Note:  All photos taken in early April.)

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The plants seen here are Rosa multiflora, a highly invasive species, one of the Top 10 Undesirables here in South Carolina for its aggressive way of claiming the land and setting up an impenetrable thicket that allows no natives root room.  I probably shouldn’t love this wild foreign rose with its very bad manners.

And yet I do.

I look forward to the bloom season of this invader, knowing I’ll see thousands of charming clusters of single-flowered roses dangling from long arching canes almost everywhere I go for two weeks at the end of April and the beginning of May.  It’s a pleasure to see the froth of creamy blooms outside my bedroom window first thing in the morning, to let my gaze roam along the wild hedge while I do dishes, looking out the kitchen window.

I’ve harvested some of its millions of bright red hips as the growing season winds down, and I’m not the only one happy to partake of this undeserved bounty.  Birds and chipmunks munch on the nutritious red hips, too, the whole winter long.

Last fall, I was charmed to discover two tiny nests deep within the maze of canes, once the foliage dropped and I could peer within the labyrinth.  This year, I’m almost certain a pair of goldfinches is nesting within its tangled, green canopy.  When threatened by predators, small songbirds often retreat into its thorny, protective embrace, as well.

Rosa multiflora in my backyard is a source of food, shelter, sanctuary, and beauty.  But really, knowing what I know, I should probably be petitioning the landlord to rip it out immediately.  That would be the kindest decision to make on behalf of the land here.

At least, it would be if I could ensure that native flora would take its place.  Unfortunately, that’s not really a safe bet around here.  As like as not, one of the many other non-native invasives in the area would take hold.  Perhaps wisteria, nandina, mimosa, ivy, or even the dreaded kudzu. They all tend to do very well in disturbed spots with sun, like the edge of the woods here.  I frankly don’t know if I could handle knowing the hickories and oaks and tall, slender pines were going to be strangled to death (wisteria) or slowly starved of sunlight (kudzu) because of a decision I made, even if it was the ecologically responsible decision to make.

I don’t know what I should do.

This Earth Day, then, a recognition that hey, it’s complicated out there.  It’s not always — or even often — simple to know which is the right choice to make in our increasingly environmentally compromised world.  And once you’ve made your choice, to make the changes required in our own landscapes and lives isn’t a simple task, either.

As Kermit the Frog would say, “It’s not easy being green.”

I honor those of you who are continuing to ask yourself what you can do to make a difference, nonetheless.  Let’s all keep educating ourselves and doing the footwork of getting to know and love our places, both the land and the community, well enough to make these hard decisions when they confront us.  Let’s not be tempted to give up when the choices are hard, when the follow-up is hard.

Above all, let’s take heart.

Namasté, y’all.

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~ Robert Frost

American Buckeye (Aesculus glabra) flowers with the characteristic long stamens.

It’s that time again.

Time for the most beautiful color imaginable:  the golden green of spring.  For me, it is the color of joy, the color of wonder.

The color of the world just waking up from a long sleep.

Looks like a squirrel silhouetted within the sun-kissed canopy, anxiously looking down at me. But it's actually a tumble of last year's dead leaves.

Of course, it’s also the color of impermanence.

If you don’t take the time out of your busy life to notice it now, before you know it you’ll have missed your chance.

That window is so brief, it astonishes me every year.  Several plants didn’t make it into this post — and all because I lifted the camera to my eye a little too slowly.

One of my favorite Japanese maples at the SC Botanical Garden.

On the other hand, I took so many pictures of this Japanese maple, admiring it from every angle, that a gardener at the South Carolina Botanical Garden came over to tell me where I might buy one for my own garden.

Some things, you must make time for, no matter what.

'Yugoslavian Red Butterhead' in a pot on the back porch.

Like spring salads.  Oh, they are delicious.  And I have a new favorite lettuce for beauty, ‘Yugoslavian Red Butterhead.’  None of the seeds came up in late winter and fall, and I was rather disappointed.  But they were only waiting until mid-January to germinate.  It seems they thrive in the cold.

Once again, everything has its season.

I am so grateful that the weather held cool for as long as it did, extending our harvests.  We even have a few spinach plants left, those grown in the lee of the house, protected from the midday sun.  It’s delightful to have fresh spinach in April.  Spinach, of course, is another one of those plants that whisper “impermanence,” at least in this climate.

Plant breeders work to hold onto that gold as long as possible, as they've done with this magnificent hosta.

Some of us just don’t want to let go when it’s time, though.  Well, I certainly don’t.  So I can understand the plant breeders who were determined to capture spring’s gold and bottle it up inside the tenderly veined foliage of this Hosta.

It’s not quite as poignant for me, though.  Somehow the color loses its power when I know it’s going to stick around all summer.  So… is that what gives this golden-green of spring its emotional punch?  It’s not merely a visual sensation, but the recognition of the inexorable passage of time.

It makes me more aware than ever of how much I want to join the dance, and how grateful I am to be a part of it whenever I do, how I know that I belong here, nestled in the heart of the amazing whirl of the natural cycle.

The truth is, I am always a part of it whether I surrender to the joy of it or resist it stubbornly every step of the way.  And I have done that recently, too, alternately dragging my feet and stomping them furiously.  Grief has its own cycle.

I guess that’s the thing with impermanence — and with life:  you get the whole deal, whether you like it or not.  Joy and wonder, birth and second chances, discovery and beauty, yes.  But also:  heartbreak and weeping, darkness and goodbye, mortality and the bitter cold.

Today the Earth is holding out her hand, and I am ready to dance again.

Closeup of Buckeye leaves unfurling from a branch.

That is worth more to me than all the gold in existence.

Namasté, y’all.

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In case you couldn’t tell, things are really busy here.

Just three days from now, F.’s Ph.D. defense will take place.  Now, I’m not the one preparing for the defense (thank goodness), but I am taking up the slack for F. in the many areas of life he’s had to ignore in order to sustain a single-minded focus on this extremely important task.  After all, it’s not every day that you present the culmination of six years of effort in your chosen field — and all in less than three hours.

So it’s a busy time.

Not to mention that it’s spring planting time, and yes, I’m working in the garden every chance I get because F. got a post-doc at the University that will take us all the way through the growing season!

Wonderful news, no?

I had already decided to go ahead with the garden before we got the news.  The possibility of a wasted season seemed more painful to me than having to leave the bounty and beauty behind in full swing.

Besides, I’d already seen bees, butterflies, and birds returning to my virtually empty garden so early and in such numbers, almost as if they were confident, after only a couple of years, that the now-dormant landscape would soon be filled to overflowing with sustenance and opportunity.  How could I disappoint them?

But since I lingered over the decision so long, I’m getting a late start on clearing the beds, weeding, adding compost, starting seedlings, transplanting, and all the rest of it.  The weather has generally not been cooperative, either, with lots of rainstorms that keep me from working in my soil for days afterward (too much experience now of the disaster that results from disturbing waterlogged red clay).

So busy is the word of the day.

Also, I’m still tutoring, and M. is absolutely blossoming now, growing daily in an appreciation for her own mind and capabilities.  Something *clicked* in the last two months, and her progress has been astonishing.  In the most recent quarterly report, she was placed on the A/B honor roll for the first time in her life, and her joy knew no bounds.  I feel privileged to be a part of her intellectual awakening.

I’ve recently become aware of just how much need there is in this community, how very many are subject to the twin disadvantages of ignorance and poverty.  Of course, now I’m covetously eyeing the area’s population of imported senior citizens.  So many well-educated retirees choose to come here to enjoy the natural beauty and outdoor sports the region affords, and in my daydream vision, at least, hordes of them are signing up to personally tutor a local youngster who needs that one-on-one attention and guidance to thrive in school — and in life.

For now, it’s just a kernel of an idea, a glint in my eye.  I’ll let you know if anything comes of it.

Other ideas are doing more than glinting in my eye, which is one reason blogging has become difficult.  I’m writing, and I find it difficult — even daunting sometimes — to switch back and forth between the longer essay format and the short and much more informal blog format.  I’ve scrapped more than a few blog drafts over the last six weeks, until I finally decided to recognize my limitations.

An occasional post is all I’ll be able to manage for now, and I probably won’t have time to visit other blogs regularly or even respond to comments as I usually do.  I feel guilty about that part.  But still, I want to keep blogging — in a way that’s manageable given current circumstances.  That may mean posts with more images and fewer words, for instance.

A big thank you to all of you who are still checking in, still looking and reading, and especially to those of you who’ve sent me thoughtful messages over the past six weeks.  I’m touched that you keep me in your thoughts and that you’ve enjoyed The Enchanted Earth enough in the past to want it to keep going.  I hope I’ll be able to bring it back to full strength one day soon.

Meanwhile, I wish you the joy of spring, wherever you are, in whatever season.

Namasté, y’all.

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