Garden magic
Garden magic
Posted 05:29am (Mla time) Feb 19, 2005
By Marcia E. Sandoval
Inquirer News Service
Editor's Note: Published on page A15 of the February 19, 2005 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer.
IF there is anything that envelopes me with supreme passion, it is seeing a beautiful garden. Gardens are magical pieces of creativity that rap your awareness, then fill your soul. They are the Creator's hand touching us through nature. To have a garden, no matter how small, is earthly bliss.
What is it about the simplicity of gardening that gives joy? To marcot, to plant from seed, to transplant-all these give satisfaction beyond measure especially when the first roots germinate. The act of watering the plants itself is a meditation. Stress is flung to the winds in those quiet times when, in communion with nature, a deep feeling of exuberance wraps you and there is no doubt God is near you.
I am fortunate to have a 25-year-old garden. Sandy, my husband, started it for me. He personally planted the rows of narra trees when they were only a foot high. Now they are giants, forming an umbrella path, their branches intertwined one with the other.There is a collection of banaba trees that add accent to the garden. We had bought them from an old suki in Calamba. We bought the whole lot and never regretted it. The flowers are like pink butterflies, fragile, endlessly blooming from September to January.
A perfumed garden in a quiet pocket made up of white flowers-camia, rosal, kampuput, malococo-all under the shade of ilang-ilang trees. A fountain of jasmines. Standing solitary on her own is a huge bush of an old-fashioned bridal bouquet, now rare. Sandy and I always agreed that in a previous life we must have been gardeners because the garden has always been our secret love.
Sandy had made, for kitchen use, an English herb garden. Herbs are as erratic as the weather. Some herbs disappear with the first rains, others thrive on rain: Italian oregano, Vietnam basil, tarragon-all growing so robust despite endless downpours.
To add whimsy to the surroundings, we built a pond to house a company of Koi carps, which gracefully swim, reminding us of ballerinas. The fattest and biggest of the lot we named Big Bertha. We constructed tall, sturdy arches in the main garden to fill with creepers. The jade vine is the prima donna of the lot. With her grape-like shape, her monochromatic chertruse colors makes onlookers gasp.
The rest of the vines are from Papua, New Guinea. An incandescent coral vine that glows in the dark is truly phenomenal. I give a dinner party each time they're in bloom and we put the tables under the vines, the better to show them off.
In my family, the women are known for their beautiful hands (hugis kandila). Mine are past tense. My fingers have to feel the soil, to dig through the fragrance of fertile black earth, to prune all the withered leaves, until the hands feel like sandpaper. It really does not matter. They have become strong working gardener's paws, and there lies the satisfaction.
Plants are special gifts. Every time I water the garden, I see familiar faces in plants gifted me. They are nice reminders of the exchange that plant lovers give each other. There, too, is a growing link in friendship and is usually attached with a sliver of love because only love can give you the happiness of putting life on a simple branch. Plant giving, to me, is an "I care" gift.
All perennial gardeners pass through plant collection binges. At the start, it was for me a madness for orchids, then bougainvilleas, callas, centennial hibiscus. Of late, I am back to starting on a collection of single-petal millennium hibiscus.
Garden magic starts from dawn to ebony nights. A refreshing "Good morning" is your wake-up call when the first ray of sun rattles the thousand leaves under its shadows. After breakfast, the garden asks for nourishment. Watering begins, after which the plants come abloom in thanksgiving. By sunset, there is a blush of orange tint around, a kiss from the setting sun.
The mystic full moon of each month does strange things to the garden. The trees sparkle, glitter, shine as if clad in jewels. The fireflies respond with winks here and there. A concert of crickets sing in unison, owls hoot, and then a solitary bird bursts into a night song.
Dwarfs and elves and lots of other little peoples rise from their mini-kingdom and pass you by on tiptoes. A flight of fairies whisper a soft prayer in your ear, and you hear it in your silence. The big, old Kapre is deep in his smoke atop the balete tree and gives side glances at the folks below.
A sudden peal of laughter breaks the silence of moonlight, giggles from children playing behind the bushes. The garden becomes enchanted, like a great masterpiece of a painting stroked by an ethereal artist. The night is shared with people who have touched our lives.
That is what the garden is all about: the sharing of joys and blessings given us in sunset years.
It is a benediction. The splendor of it all is bursting in the gardener's heart.
Besides tending to her garden, Marcia E. Sandoval at 73 paints and writes books for children. She has her home in Laguna.
Posted 05:29am (Mla time) Feb 19, 2005
By Marcia E. Sandoval
Inquirer News Service
Editor's Note: Published on page A15 of the February 19, 2005 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer.
IF there is anything that envelopes me with supreme passion, it is seeing a beautiful garden. Gardens are magical pieces of creativity that rap your awareness, then fill your soul. They are the Creator's hand touching us through nature. To have a garden, no matter how small, is earthly bliss.
What is it about the simplicity of gardening that gives joy? To marcot, to plant from seed, to transplant-all these give satisfaction beyond measure especially when the first roots germinate. The act of watering the plants itself is a meditation. Stress is flung to the winds in those quiet times when, in communion with nature, a deep feeling of exuberance wraps you and there is no doubt God is near you.
I am fortunate to have a 25-year-old garden. Sandy, my husband, started it for me. He personally planted the rows of narra trees when they were only a foot high. Now they are giants, forming an umbrella path, their branches intertwined one with the other.There is a collection of banaba trees that add accent to the garden. We had bought them from an old suki in Calamba. We bought the whole lot and never regretted it. The flowers are like pink butterflies, fragile, endlessly blooming from September to January.
A perfumed garden in a quiet pocket made up of white flowers-camia, rosal, kampuput, malococo-all under the shade of ilang-ilang trees. A fountain of jasmines. Standing solitary on her own is a huge bush of an old-fashioned bridal bouquet, now rare. Sandy and I always agreed that in a previous life we must have been gardeners because the garden has always been our secret love.
Sandy had made, for kitchen use, an English herb garden. Herbs are as erratic as the weather. Some herbs disappear with the first rains, others thrive on rain: Italian oregano, Vietnam basil, tarragon-all growing so robust despite endless downpours.
To add whimsy to the surroundings, we built a pond to house a company of Koi carps, which gracefully swim, reminding us of ballerinas. The fattest and biggest of the lot we named Big Bertha. We constructed tall, sturdy arches in the main garden to fill with creepers. The jade vine is the prima donna of the lot. With her grape-like shape, her monochromatic chertruse colors makes onlookers gasp.
The rest of the vines are from Papua, New Guinea. An incandescent coral vine that glows in the dark is truly phenomenal. I give a dinner party each time they're in bloom and we put the tables under the vines, the better to show them off.
In my family, the women are known for their beautiful hands (hugis kandila). Mine are past tense. My fingers have to feel the soil, to dig through the fragrance of fertile black earth, to prune all the withered leaves, until the hands feel like sandpaper. It really does not matter. They have become strong working gardener's paws, and there lies the satisfaction.
Plants are special gifts. Every time I water the garden, I see familiar faces in plants gifted me. They are nice reminders of the exchange that plant lovers give each other. There, too, is a growing link in friendship and is usually attached with a sliver of love because only love can give you the happiness of putting life on a simple branch. Plant giving, to me, is an "I care" gift.
All perennial gardeners pass through plant collection binges. At the start, it was for me a madness for orchids, then bougainvilleas, callas, centennial hibiscus. Of late, I am back to starting on a collection of single-petal millennium hibiscus.
Garden magic starts from dawn to ebony nights. A refreshing "Good morning" is your wake-up call when the first ray of sun rattles the thousand leaves under its shadows. After breakfast, the garden asks for nourishment. Watering begins, after which the plants come abloom in thanksgiving. By sunset, there is a blush of orange tint around, a kiss from the setting sun.
The mystic full moon of each month does strange things to the garden. The trees sparkle, glitter, shine as if clad in jewels. The fireflies respond with winks here and there. A concert of crickets sing in unison, owls hoot, and then a solitary bird bursts into a night song.
Dwarfs and elves and lots of other little peoples rise from their mini-kingdom and pass you by on tiptoes. A flight of fairies whisper a soft prayer in your ear, and you hear it in your silence. The big, old Kapre is deep in his smoke atop the balete tree and gives side glances at the folks below.
A sudden peal of laughter breaks the silence of moonlight, giggles from children playing behind the bushes. The garden becomes enchanted, like a great masterpiece of a painting stroked by an ethereal artist. The night is shared with people who have touched our lives.
That is what the garden is all about: the sharing of joys and blessings given us in sunset years.
It is a benediction. The splendor of it all is bursting in the gardener's heart.
Besides tending to her garden, Marcia E. Sandoval at 73 paints and writes books for children. She has her home in Laguna.
posted by Dante at 5:29 AM
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