Things that make me go ouch - reflexology paths in Singapore

Reflexology path in Singapore Botanic Gardens.

I love how the parks and gardens of Singapore are not only meant to be looked at, but to be used. One typical garden feature here is the reflexology path found in many public parks and on the grounds of large housing estates. These paths take many forms; winding pathways are the most common, but I've seen circles, irregular patches formed as stepping stones and even installations looking like teardrops or commas. They are constructed of small pebbles ranging from flat to pointed and round to oblong, all of them embedded in concrete in carefully laid out decorative patterns.

Place for my daily reflexology fix - Katong Park in the east coast of Singapore.

The purpose of these paths is to stimulate pressure points in the feet; reflexology teaches that the feet, hands and ears contain several reflex points that correspond to other parts of the body. By stimulating these points by massage or by walking on paths like these, we are supposed to gain beneficial effects on our overall health in the corresponding body parts. Of course, reflexology has not been proved scientifically valid or effective (but then, not many practices hailing from other than Western countries and traditions have been...), but it is completely mainstream in Asia and has a large following even some Scandinavian countries. And in Seattle where I lived previously, a couple of reflexology paths were installed quite recently.

Lately, I've become addicted to the one in Katong park above. When I go there, I feel an immediate need to kick off my sandals and walk on the little stones to earn the invigorating feeling they generate in my legs, feet and the rest of the body, despite that fact that it actually is quite painful to do so. I'm not sure if I've gained any other major health effects yet, but I'll let you know if I notice any improvements. And I'm actually already contemplating of including a reflexology path in my garden in Sweden - I just need to figure out how to keep the concrete from cracking in winter frosts, obviously a problem that Singaporean gardeners never need to encounter.

Pebble patterns from Meyer Road park, Katong park and Singapore Botanic Gardens. The stonework reminds me of Italian and French gardens, even if the purpose of it is completely different.

Reflexology path leading to the bamboo grove in Singapore Botanic Gardens.

Applicable advice from the other great recession

A tap on my own back again; my second article was just published in the Washington Park Arboretum Bulletin, which I am very happy about. This time, I wrote about the first region-specific gardening books published in the Pacific Northwest. These appeared in the 1930s; it seems that until then, gardeners here were satisfied by local newspaper and magazine articles and books published elsewhere.

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The earliest book to come out was Pacific Northwest Garden Guide for the Puget Sound Country and Northern Oregon by Charles J. Love in 1933. This energetic nurseryman from Seattle was a predecessor of today's star gardeners who fill the media; he evolved into a well-known public figure with newspaper and magazine columns and even radio broadcasts. Much of his advice is still accurate, even if some of it raise a smile, like his comment about rhododendrons and azaleas, that according to him had “not yet gained the attention they deserve in Pacific Northwest gardens”. He was definitely heard, as they now fill gardens here.
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Besides plant information, Love explained gardening and horticultural techniques, especially concentrating on growing edibles. The spirit of the economical depression of the 1930s shines through clearly when Love contemplates:

“We have the same wealth we always had - more in fact than any other country on earth, but we have allowed that wealth to flow into one corner and our structure became unbalanced and toppled over. Going back to the land is significant and will help distribute our great wealth to every nook and corner of our land. Trade in your own locality with local men and watch the regaining of equilibrium.”

His words bear an almost uncanny reflection of our own economically distressed times. Despite having been written in the early 1930s, they could be from any Farmer’s Market or locavore manifesto of today. The circle seems to have closed, we are back in growing our own edibles and trying to find a way out from a new great recession. And I can't but agree with Mr. Love about the importance of using local produce and locally manufactured products as an important way for achieving this.

Washington Park Arboretum Bulletin

Belltown P-Patch garden - a haven for urban farmers

Belltown P-Patch garden is a haven even for some smaller inhabitants; this little bird was busy feeding her noisy chicks inside the house... (perching on the flower stake with a duck).

Make no mistake: Seattleites are one eco-friendly bunch of people. They bike (or at least drive a hybrid), and with their fleeces and sensible shoes, they generally look like they would just be heading off for a tough hike somewhere off the beaten tracks. They recycle religiously, use their own latte mugs instead of disposable ones, and eat organic food, preferably bought at the local farmers markets. So it is no surprise that growing one's own food is hugely popular here, and living in the middle of the city can do nothing to curb that passion.

Entrance to the garden, with a solar-powered fountain and mosaics by local artists.

For the moment, the city of Seattle has totally 73 community gardens where urban gardeners can get their nails dirty. Since the early 1990s, the number of gardens have more than doubled, but this hasn't been enough to satisfy the eager growers; at the same time, the queue for allotments has more than doubled, too; in the most popular gardens you now need to wait over three years for a lot. In Seattle, community gardens are called P-Patch gardens after the first of them, Picardo Farm, which was bought by the city in 1973 and rented as allotments for the citizens. Belltown P-Patch is from the mid-90s. It is the most urban of the P-Patch gardens, situated just a stone's throw from the business district of Seattle city centre.

A salmon-colored aquilegia in full bloom.

Only three of the original cottages are left, showing the scale of the city for a century ago. Two of these now are appointed for writers-in-residence from the Hugo House Writers Centre, the third is for community gatherings.

Belltown P-Patch has a decidedly arty air, with works by many local artists enhancing the garden. Many of the works are both beautiful and practical, like the great welded entry gate and the elaborate railings around the garden. Colorful mosaics fill the heavy retaining walls that are indispensable for keeping the soil in place. Many of the urban farmers have kept to the same theme, filling their lots with re-purposed objects, all arranged according to their personal tastes.

 Delicately stripy fava beans need more sun and warmth to develop their delicious pods.

Surrounding high-rises; the garden is an oasis for local residents and people working in the city centre alike.

For many Europeans, United States unfortunately stands for all things fast and big - junk food, high energy consumption and water usage just to mention some. But community gardens like Belltown P-Patch are the antithesis of all that, and they show the other side of US that seldom gets into the spotlight abroad. With urban farming gaining momentum and farmers markets popping up everywhere, ecological thinking and great concern for nature and food are growing like a great wave all over the country. Is tremendously exciting to see how committed and engaged people are to making things better. Jamie Oliver got colossal attention when he took his Food Revolution- show to the US last year. But in Seattle, and many other parts of the country, Americans were well on their way towards healthier food and lifestyle long before he crossed the Atlantic.

Open to the public, 2516 Elliott Avenue, Seattle.

Pleated, edged

Lately, I've been drawn to plants with less than obvious charms. Certainly, I do enjoy a gorgeous flower, but subtle nuances rather than explicitness increasingly catch my attention.

I guess the buttercup winterhazel, Corylopsis pauciflora, is an excellent example of a plant that I'd probably had walked past for ten years ago, not really noticing its many merits... Its buttery, delicately scented flowers appear in mid-winter like tiny lanterns hanging from its bare branches. After they fade in late March or April, its bright green, pleated leaves unfurl and reveal their elegant, burgundy edges; I think they are even more striking that its flowers. Slowly, its slender branches grow into a sculptural vase-formed shrub that seldom exceeds breast height. This winterhazel  looks striking with early spring ephemerals, like cyclamen, Helleborus, snowdrops and crocuses.

Maybe it's my age (somewhere in the middle of life, with a bit of luck...), but there's something soothing to realize that it is not only about the grandifloras, but that the paucifloras can have just as much to give.

Photographed at the Elisabeth C. Miller Botanical Garden, May 5th 2011.

Pssst, honey...

 I've been doing so little in my garden that I shouldn't even call myself a gardener anymore... Maybe it's the chilly weather, or maybe something else that I don't really want to define for the moment.

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Anyway, I decided to make amends, weeding myself through the worst parts of the borders. I found dozens of alert little baby Irises that had self-seeded into all the wrong places but were too cute to be tugged out; and then, these two love birds, cooing soft little nothings to each other...  Spring is definately in the air, not even the freezing cold can hold it back now.

These excellent, sometimes invasive groundcover violets were sold as Viola labradorica that are native to Labrador, Greenland and Nova Scotia, but they probably are V. riviana, a garden variety from Europe (it is improbable that the arctic variety would thrive at these latitudes...). I love their dark leaves with a purple tinge, and the edible flowers are perfect to decorate chocolate cakes with. Might actually make one for tonight, after all, it is Friday...

Now and Zen...?

My Japanese weeping maple...

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One of my Azaleas...
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My flowering Japanese cherry...
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My Stewartia pseudocamellia...
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My witch-hazel, Hamamelis x intermedia...
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Another of my witch-hazels...
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And another of my Azaleas...
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I have strange feeling that my garden is trying to tell me something. Maybe I should just let go and watch as it evolves into a full-blown moss garden?
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More complete, by adding

A garden is not complete

until nothing more can be removed.

*- Japanese proverb -

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On the way to the school bus this morning, my girls found this stone by the sidewalk. "Look, mom, it's a perfect miniature mountain! Let's take it home!" So I carried it home with red, frostbitten fingers (no gloves again, one gets so lazy when they are seldom needed). Under some big trees behind the house, it now forms an enchanted little landscape together with the ever-flourishing mosses, like a tiny shard of completeness amongst all imperfection.

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I just wonder how I can keep the maintenance guys from removing it, without marking it with some kind of an ugly label?

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Five abundant acres - Wells Medina Nursery

Feathery, spiky, cascading, golden... hundreds of conifers mingling together at the Well's Medina Nursery.

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Some temptations in life are more difficult to resist than others, and for plant people like me, nurseries can be scenes for great mental battles. How many times haven't I been there, asking myself all the right questions: do I really need the new plant; do I know where to plant it in my garden; do I really have the time & commitment to make it thrive... and so on, until I resign, knowing that however hard I try, life is just too short for so much sensible reasoning.

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Bounty & beauty for autumn containers...

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And now, I'm living within walking distance of Wells Medina Nursery, with five acres filled to brim with an amazing selection of well-tended temptations, many of which are rare and unusual, and all of which are in excellent condition. Japanese umbrella pines mingle with golden Metasequioas, Trilliums and Dodecatheons hold up their elegant, nodding blooms in chorus, young Arisaemas and Anemonellas of the shadow plant section beg to be noticed and admired... So many times, I've fought my urgent cravings to dash down the street just to see what's in season, fully aware of the risks. A couple of times, I've almost bumped into another car as I've managed to drive past, but then stretched out my neck to catch a speedy glimpse of the seasonal arrangements that fill the front. Was it meant to build my character, living so close to those abundant acres, full of goodies for plant lovers like me? In that case, I'm making no progress worth mentioning...

* Autumn color at the shrub section. I love wandering the paths of a well-stocked nursery, browsing the name tags of the plats; a lovely opportunity to get to know new ones and to see things from magazines and books "live"...

Make love, not war

Two amorous bees at work in a heliotropium...

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I've been spending time at the Elisabeth Miller Library, our wonderful botanical and horticultural library in Seattle, wading through old magazines for an article series I'm trying to put together. Amongst the fragile, yellowed pages of "Little Gardener", a publication by Lake Washington Garden Club's ladies division, I found following advertisement from 1933:
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War! War! War!

We don't believe in disarmament!

We do believe in preparedness!

We are not pacifists!

We are for war!

Gardening is a perpetual warfare against
weeds, slugs and insects!

I can easily see those little ladies in aprons, all well prepared with gleaming cans of DDT, chasing up poor little slugs and bugs in their gardens... and I hope I'm not too optimistic when I think that we gardeners have evolved into something better now that organic gardening has become mainstream in most developed countries.

Have a love-filled gardening weekend.

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For the benefit of body and soul: Sagalund in Kimito

Small wooden carts in the gardens of Sagalund.
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While in Turku, or Åbo in Swedish, in the southwestern coast of Finland, my parents took us to the charming outdoor museum of Sagalund in Kimito, founded in 1900 by teacher Nils Oskar Jansson. Jansson was a devoted admirer of the Swedish naturalist Carl von Linné, and believed strongly that gardening had an inspirational, uplifting effect on the young souls he was entrusted with.

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First of May gardening tool inspection at Vreta Folkskola, Sagalund, in 1906.

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Every spring, his students were instructed to bring tools from home to the school: a wooden trowel, a small rake, a basket and a little cart for transporting soil, mulch and manure, and for hauling away waste to the compost. Each year on the first day of May, all students stood in row while the tools they had brought were inspected. The students were also encouraged to take home bulbs, seedlings and plants in their small carts.

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Nils Oskar Jansson wrote to his students in the early 1910s:

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"The purpose of gardening is to benefit both the body and the soul. (...) The needs of the soul should be nourished by making the nearest grounds of the home as flourishing, blooming and attractive as possible. This is achieved by growing all kinds of fruit trees, shelter belts of green trees and well-tended hedges, and by saving and pruning what nature itself has planted in the place."

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I especially liked his thoughts about the connection between gardening and the characteristics of a soul:

"What is planted and grown bears witness to the home owners disposition; idleness and negligence do not thrive in gardens, and coarseness and wickedness do not like flowers."

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Next week, the school year starts again here in Seattle. I wonder if we are doing as good job as Nils Oskar in nourishing the young bodies and souls of our children...

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Bredablick revisited

The entrance flower bed as seen from the house towards the drive way. The round stone on the left is a pebble from the nearby beach.

No, I'm absolutely not comparing my house and garden to Brideshead in any way... nor was Bredablick, my garden, after our two years of absence in such a horribly gloomy condition as Brideshead was when Charles Ryder unexpectedly returned there as head of his brigade.

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Lower part of the same flower bed as above...

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When arriving in Sweden, I first felt quite uneasy to see my garden and house called Bredablick, "the wide view", named so after the lot of land where they are situated. Having had such an intimate relationship with my garden - cutting back, clearing, weeding, mulching, planting, always with soil under my fingernails - I was full of anguish to see how much had survived a break of two years and three summers. Of course, I've had someone to do the basic maintenance, but as anyone who has ever gardened knows, a garden must be loved, not just maintained.

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And still another view of the same area, with an old apple tree in the front.

To my great relief, many plants had survived, even if there were casualties: my shady flower border was almost gone, with only some ferns and a couple of Lilium martagons and Astrantias persisting in front of the huge, old lilac hedge. I chose them not only because of their lovely looks, but also because they are supposed to be highly tolerant towards both shade and neglegt, but I guess they too have their limits. In my entrance flowerbeds some plants had thrived and some not. Sadly, the hollies (Ilex meserveae 'Blue Prince') that I had planted in a bout of "hardiness zone optimism" had shed almost all of their leaves, so I had to cut them back to a height of only one feet. I hope that they grow back before we return (which should be in about two years time...), but until then, what was supposed to be a a dark, glossy green fond behind the perennials in these highly visible entrance flowerbeds, consists now only of a bunch of meager sticks with a couple leaves sprouting from them.

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The front lawn, where I usually grow islands of daisies and other meadow flowers...The large buxus was planted in the 1930s and the small babies by me for a couple of years ago.

Otherwise the Hostas were thriving and should have been divided, an impossible task given the hot, dry weather while we were in Sweden. Many of the peonies had grown fatter, and all lady's mantles, Alchemillas, were having a ball, spreading happily into all flowerbeds and self-seeding all over the gravel drive together with the Geraniums. I was hoping to have time to transplant even some of them to better positions, but our days in Sweden disappeared quicker than it took the glistening sprinkles of water from our garden hoses to be absorbed by the needy, parched soil...

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Bredablick, part of the "wide view"... Limestone paving and a lavender hedge to the left.

And there I was, happily toiling in my garden again, not noticing as time flew past. I was secretly feeling a bit ashamed of that I don't feel like this in my garden in Seattle, despite all its abundance and possibilities... And then, in Robert Pogue Harrison's thought-provoking book Gardens - An Essay on the Human Condition I found a passage that describes what I hadn't been able to formulate:

A garden that comes into being through one's own labor and tending efforts is very different from the fantastical gardens where things preexist spontaneously, offering themselves gratuitously for enjoyment. (...)
Unlike earthly paradises, human-made gardens that are bought into and
maintained in being by cultivation retain a signature of the human agency to which they owe their existence.

Deck for outdoor dining behind the house.

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Somewhere between the lines above, there might be the reason for my inability (at least not yet)to get attached to my Seattle garden: it was designed and planted by someone else, and despite all my pottering around, I have not really been creating anything of my "own". Maybe, creating and taking care of a garden is what is needed for being able to truly appreciate and enjoy it and its beauty. At Bredablick, I started with an overgrown, weed filled jungle and worked hard to leave my mark and make it into a garden. Despite my absence and the fact that it still is very much a work in progress (or isn't a garden always just that...), I feel that it still carries "a signature of my human agency"... and maybe that is why I continue to love it so much.

The sun coming up behind the nearby islands, all wrapped in early morning mist.

PS - thank you, Farmor for all help with getting the garden at Bredablick back in shape.

Without plants, a dull and lifeless home

A housewife discussing with her servant; flourishing plants form a suitable background depicting a happy household... 'Husmoderns rådgivare' by Kerstin Wenström, Stockholm 1923.

Potted plants are a symbol for a happy home. Think about all pictures in books and magazines: even the most streamlined modernist interiors have something live and green, preferably with a striking, architectural form. They gratify our need for a bit of nature midst our busy, often urban lives, and give us the joy of experiencing the miracle of growth.

In Scandinavia, plants seem to have a special place in peoples hearts as carriers of hope during the long, dark winters when nothing in the nature seems to be alive. Nowhere is this love for potted plants more visible than in Carl Larsson's paintings about his wife Karin's flowers filling the windowsills, adding to the charm of the home of these two, prolific artists. Even today, an average Swedish home has between 20 and 40 houseplants, many of which start their lives as cuttings from friends and family.

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Azalea, by Carl Larsson (1906), shows Karin Larsson with her flowers. The handloom that she used for her textile designs is in the background.

Most of us never give a second thought to why we grow potted plants. But Clas Bergvall, an ethnologist at Umeå University, was so intrigued by how much joy his wife got from plants, that he dedicated eight years and his doctoral dissertation to the subject. In Life, Mood and Meaning, Bergvall researches the relationship between indoor plants and their owners, looking at how potted plants affect the way they view their lives, their identity, and their space. By interviewing hundreds of plant owners, Bergvall found out that the satisfaction of seeing plants grow and change over the seasons and time was as important as the aesthetic reasons for having them. While attending to their plants, the owners felt that they got their own space for thoughts and reflections, undisturbed by other people or daily chores. Also, being able to nurture the plants was a confirmation of their capability to create a real home; many thought that a home without indoor plants is dull and lifeless.

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A selection of indoor plants from 'Husmoderns rådgivare'. Roses 'Hermosa', 'Marechal Niel' and 'Gloire de Dijon', which are still available from some growers, are given as examples of reliable choices for forcing in pots.

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Bergvall tells also the history of potted plants in Sweden. First, they appeared in the orangeries of the nobility during the 17th century and were symbols for wealth and status. From there they slowly spread to the houses of the new and affluent middle classes of the 19th century. By the end of that century, even the modest homes had potted plants, often grown from cuttings taken by people who worked as servants in the wealthier households. By the first half of the 20th century potted plants were a given part of a home.

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In my life, I've gone through periods of having many plants and absolutely no plants. Some of them I still miss, like the lemon tree that I grew from pips that came from a huge Meyer lemon tree in my garden in Melbourne. In only five years, it shot up to over two meters, showing clearly its genetic parentage. It felt like a living, direct link to our wonderful life in Australia, and I spent many times contemplating how to take it with me to the US. Fortunately, my mother with green fingers is babysitting it now. The lemon tree seemed like an exception to my success with indoor plants in general. I've always doubted the link between successful indoor and outdoor gardening; I seem to be much more capable of nurturing plants in the open, somehow forgetting about the poor indoor ones until their wilting leaves nearly shout out their need of water. But with or without plants, I've luckily still never thought of my home as dull and lifeless...

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'Husmoderns rådgivare', a book about housekeeping by Kerstin Wenström was published in Stockholm 1923. It was hugely popular; eight editions came out during its first year in print.

Planting in the dripping rain

Colchicum autumnale and C. speciosum album (single and double flowering bulbs).

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For couple of days ago, I planted a whole wheelbarrow load of divisions, bulbs and corms. Wandering around my garden with the rain dripping down my nose and neck, I spent hours figuring out the best places for the treasures I had got. And still, I could not feel real joy for what I was doing. The matter is, that my gardening friend and her husband, about whose wonderful place I wrote twice last spring, have sold their large property and are moving away. It is time, she says, and I can see it, but I had hoped that this would not take place quite yet. There will be new development, and nothing will remain of this enchanted place by a little stream in a slope, hidden amongst the Seattle suburbia. The Hardy Plant Society is doing a "garden rescue" on Saturday and saving all they can, potting up as many plants as they can for a charity plant sale next spring. There are thousands of them, hundreds of different genus and species, many of which are very rare.

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Here they are, some of the stars of this sad story, before they were transplanted into my garden. Now, after a weeks time of settling in, they still seem a bit surprised, probably missing their old friends and lush surroundings, and of course, the gardener they had gotten used to. I am still looking for the best possible place for the white, double Trillium I got; nothing seems to be good enough for this little gem. Life goes on, as usual. At the same time, it is frustrating to see how little of the work of even the best gardeners can be saved and enjoyed in the long term.

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Disporum sessile variegata, three beautiful plants ready for new soil.

Five divisions of Pulmonaria longifolia, which keeps its foliage the whole season, found its place in front of a light pink Camellia sasangua.

Paeonia wittmanniana with two fresh eyes; it is a close relative to P. mlokosewitschii, but the leaves are lighter green and the flowers paler yellow, sometimes almost white.

Fat, juicy bulbs of large, white lilies.

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I wrote about the magic flowering carpets in this beautiful garden in March and in May. The pictures, despite taken by an amateur photographer like me, are still heartbreakingly beautiful. I hope the little transplants I got feel themselves at home in my garden, even if it will never be able to match the place they came from.

Back home

Gum trees (Eucalyptus sp.) towering over the rolling hills of Marin County, north of San Francisco.

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Late yesterday, we arrived home from a trip to San Francisco and coastal California. It was my first trip to this part of the United States, and despite having heard of it countless times, it was still surprising to see how much it reminds of South Eastern Australia. The hills rolling down to the sea, the sun-parched nature and the arid flora of California made me quite homesick for Melbourne (can one be homesick for a place one was not born in…?), feeling like being almost there, but still thousands of miles away. I grew quite tired of myself repeating the mantra “…just like in Australia” over and over; what does it matter, when both places are so amazingly beautiful?

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Australian plants at the San Francisco Botanical Garden in the Golden Gate Park.

It was lovely to see gum trees (Eucalyptus sp.) cover both parkland and forests, feel their scent and listen to the rattle of their tough, leathery leaves. Many of them were huge and old, certainly over 100 years, their bark and leaves shedding off and covering large areas around them. I read that they were introduced in California around the 1850’s, sold by nurseries for both ornamental and practical purposes as firewood and hardwood for building. They look so well-adapted that it is difficult to imagine the landscape without them. Unfortunately, being extremely easy to catch fire, they have increased the forest fire danger in California, which together with Victoria tops the bush fire statistics of the world.

Landscape with Eucalyptus trees, also in Marin County.

Another acquaintance from my time Australia, the Monterey cypress (Cupressus macrocarpa), was actually native to the Monterey and Carmel area where we were staying for a while. In Australia it was often planted by seaside roads, so now the trees form a strong visual accent in their environment; I especially think about the road leading to Apollo Bay by the Great Ocean Road, one of my favorite places in Victoria... I love the sculptural, dramatic form of Monterey cypresses; unfortunately, it has a bad habit of loosing its branches and dying suddenly, just when it gets to its most mature and beautiful stage. All these visual and botanical ties; plants travelling afar, connecting different countries and places…

Australian Kangaroo paw, Anigozanthos flavidus, thrives even in California.

Now, I am sorting out the over 500 photos I took during our trip; tomorrow I’ll hopefully be writing about the garden related highlights, which include the new Californian Academy of Sciences with its much photographed and published grass roof, the stately but intimate estate of Filoli and the mid-century modern Sunset Garden.