letting go.
(*apologies--originally posted draft by mistake!)
I spent the morning with J, who has spent the last 10 years creating organic landscapes--parks and public green spaces that are pesticide-free. In the same way that vegetables and fruits can be grown organically, landscapes can be grown without the use of chemical pesticides and fertilizers.
J showed up in a tank top and a floppy canvas hat over his shoulder-length salt and pepper hair. We rode around in his beat up pick up truck and traded easy smiles.
We walked through at least ten of his park spaces, and he pointed out the trees that had done particularly well, and the ones that needed pruning. He talked about different native plants, and the owl boxes he had been experimenting with. He was toying with the idea that bringing back native predatory birds might be a good way to control rodent pests like gophers.
I asked question after question about how things worked, how much they cost, how decisions were made, and weeds removed. (Quite well, not much, collaboratively, and by hand--in case you're wondering.)
Organic landscapes are a different kind of landscape, less manicured and less managed--because you can't control what will grow and what won't with chemicals and fertilizers. At the core of J's philosophy about green spaces, was the idea that what will grow will grow.
What will grow will grow.
It is a different kind of letting go. Some kinds of letting go mean that you abandon a thing, that you stop caring. But letting go can also mean caring more deeply. It requires patience and careful attention--a willingness to think and watch and choose wisely where and how you intervene.
--
J talked at length about the oak moth which had been killing his oak trees. For several years they had sprayed. In the end, he decided to just leave them alone.
"And most of them recovered," he said, pointing to a stand of healthy oaks. "It was remarkable. We let it go, and they came back."
"Why do you think that happened?"
"I don't know," he shrugged. "I suppose they were in the right spot, enough that they had what they needed to recover on their own."
We walked a little further.
"This guy probably isn't going to make it," he said sadly, touching the brown leaves withering from a smaller lone oak on the path.
"What will you do?" I asked.
"I'll let nature take it course."
He glanced at the tree again and he smiled. "And then I'll find a better spot, and plant two more."
I spent the morning with J, who has spent the last 10 years creating organic landscapes--parks and public green spaces that are pesticide-free. In the same way that vegetables and fruits can be grown organically, landscapes can be grown without the use of chemical pesticides and fertilizers.
J showed up in a tank top and a floppy canvas hat over his shoulder-length salt and pepper hair. We rode around in his beat up pick up truck and traded easy smiles.
We walked through at least ten of his park spaces, and he pointed out the trees that had done particularly well, and the ones that needed pruning. He talked about different native plants, and the owl boxes he had been experimenting with. He was toying with the idea that bringing back native predatory birds might be a good way to control rodent pests like gophers.
I asked question after question about how things worked, how much they cost, how decisions were made, and weeds removed. (Quite well, not much, collaboratively, and by hand--in case you're wondering.)
Organic landscapes are a different kind of landscape, less manicured and less managed--because you can't control what will grow and what won't with chemicals and fertilizers. At the core of J's philosophy about green spaces, was the idea that what will grow will grow.
What will grow will grow.
It is a different kind of letting go. Some kinds of letting go mean that you abandon a thing, that you stop caring. But letting go can also mean caring more deeply. It requires patience and careful attention--a willingness to think and watch and choose wisely where and how you intervene.
--
J talked at length about the oak moth which had been killing his oak trees. For several years they had sprayed. In the end, he decided to just leave them alone.
"And most of them recovered," he said, pointing to a stand of healthy oaks. "It was remarkable. We let it go, and they came back."
"Why do you think that happened?"
"I don't know," he shrugged. "I suppose they were in the right spot, enough that they had what they needed to recover on their own."
We walked a little further.
"This guy probably isn't going to make it," he said sadly, touching the brown leaves withering from a smaller lone oak on the path.
"What will you do?" I asked.
"I'll let nature take it course."
He glanced at the tree again and he smiled. "And then I'll find a better spot, and plant two more."
posted by m at 2:28 PM
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