A Rain Delay
A rain delay? There’s no need to roll out the tarps. The game’s not going to be called. In fact, a rainy day in spring is the perfect time to catch all the action in the garden.
I had originally planned another article for this week’s offering here on The Renaissance Garden Guy. I had a piece already written in my head, and I was going to lay it on you today. But then something happened to change my mind. It rained. So I wrote this instead.
There’s something about the look and feel of the great outdoors when it’s got rainwater all over it in the middle of spring. Every living thing looks more alive. Feels more vital. And for me, there are few places better to experience this phenomenon than in my garden.
In my garden, in the rain, life is lived exuberantly. Nesting birds chirp while they dote on their young, draping them in the protective warmth of wing and feather. (Do they sing a lullaby to their babies? A joyful promise of the wonders of a world that awaits them beyond their familiar rim of twigs and leaves?) Frogs and toads explore the garden with low-slung confidence and un-camouflaged curiosity. The whole world, after all, is wet. Like a pond. They love the garden when it’s raining, and they tell me all about it. Butterflies, moths, and bees all keep dry beneath sheltering foliage and and in their humming hives. Snails and slugs, earthworms and ants… all venture out of their secret places, gliding, sniffing, wriggling, nosing, trundling. The rain is a boon to these littlest of garden residents.
And the plants… what about the plants in my garden in the rain on a day in the middle of spring?
The plants, my garden’s raison d’ être, are beginning to demand attention on this rainy spring day. They want to be looked at. They want to be admired. They’ve waited for moments like this, for conditions like these, to make their presence known. They’ve begun a statement, and have made a promise. We’re back. We’re here. Look at us. Look at our green leaves and our coursing stems. Marvel at our flowers, our colors. Mind our shoots. Watch us come out of the ground. Watch us break free of the dirt. We’re shaking it all off. Watch us drink. Watch us breathe. Do you see these things? Do you see our lives? Do you see us? The raindrops make everything about us bigger. Greener. Brighter. It’s still early, and we promise you – oui, mesdames et messieurs, we PROMISE you – you haven’t seen anything yet.
Are my plants alive? No doubt about that. Are they sentient? I like to imagine that they are, although they’re most likely not. Admittedly, however, their obvious physical responses to any number of stimuli make the answer to this question less than totally clear-cut. (You’re going to love my next book review. I’m going to talk about a work packed with subject matter which lies immediately along these very lines. It’s coming a bit later this month.) I definitely talk to them – I do this with every other living organism in my garden, as well – and in my garden, the slightly-beyond-susurrous vocal din of a coffe house on a Saturday morning can be heard whenever I’m on-site. (It’s probably a good thing we don’t have neighbors nearby.)
There exists a very powerful bond between all of the living things in my garden and me. But on a day like today, with a light spring rain informing the land, it’s the vibe of the plants that’s really rocking me. I watch the plants of my garden drink up the drops and shimmer with misty eagerness, and I am left almost breathless by their vitality, their inevitability. I’m moved to almost paganistic awe by their ancient rhythms. Does the profundity of the bond between the plants of my garden and me exist as a result of my relationship to them as their custodian, steward, and ambassador? True, I’ve raised my plants from when they were small (some, from seeds), and I’ve tended them ceaselessly, and with great love and pride. Hell, I’ve even launched a whole new career based on my relationship with them. But is it merely this personal history I share with them that accounts for this undeniable sense of connection, or is it something more?
Animals (a group of organisms to which human beings belong) have shared this planet with plants for a very, very long time. Although in the study of biology there exist seven different taxonomic kingdoms, the earth has ostensibly (and for the purposes of this discussion) been under the rule of two for approximately 500 million years. Animalia and Plantae have been equitable partners, neighbors, and symbionts since the Cambrian Period. Humanity’s long distant ancestors, and the ancestors of the plants in my garden, lived, thrived, languished, and perished beneath the same ancient sun in a shared alien landscape. The bond between animals and plants encompasses nearly 200 billion mutual dawns and 200 billion mutual sunsets. Mass extinctions, atmospheric events that fundamentally altered the chemical composition of the very air which members of both kingdoms breathed, and the inexorable passing of time marked by the globe’s nearly infinite rotations on its axis and its 500 million trips around the implacable sun, have created an indelible history between these two primary groups of earth’s inhabitants. This history is undeniable. It’s written in rock and it’s told in dust.
When I look out at my garden in the rain on a spring day, and I see my ornamental perennial plants literally growing before my eyes, I know that these cultivated plants, though modified and embellished through the efforts of modern day human beings, remain as primitive and elemental as their Cambrian ancestors. And though I myself don’t outwardly resemble those strange creatures which first crawled from the primordial slime some 500 million years ago to share the planet with those ancient plants (some may dispute this point, you know, about the resemblance thing), I do function now, biologically, as they once did. My garden’s plants and I (and all of the animals that call my garden home) each follow the same timeless set of rules, we obey the same biological imperative, and that same ancient sun continues to rise and set upon our respective kingdoms. We are connected. We always have been, and we always will be.
Watching the plants in my garden grow, drink, and thrive during a light spring rain will always, for me, remain an evocative experience. I think about my connections to these plants – the one which has arisen as a result of my caring for them here in my own garden, and the connection born of an ageless race memory. I marvel at the efficiency and the ultimate results of the biological mechanisms which these ancient and miraculous organisms utilize to grow, thrive, and reproduce. Those results are here in my garden – before my eyes and in the rain – in the form of burgeoning green finery. And although individual plants may bend beneath the weight of the rainwater collecting in their foliage, as a kingdom, they will never break. They’re here to stay, sharing the planet with the birds, the frogs, the bees, the people – all of the animals – until the end of time.
(So all in all, spending time in my rainy garden today was a good thing – almost as good as the baseball game I was watching. Until it got rained out.)
Cheers, and Happy Gardening!
John G. Stamos (2022)
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Here in the Pacific Northwest it rains a lot – hence why Washington State is called The Evergreen State [actually it’s because of the evergreen trees – but it also rains a lot here – hence why the trees are ever green (pun intended) ].
I like to garden in the rain. It feels so nice and soothing to be outside with the rain drops everywhere.
We have strange weather here in Wasington state. One minute the sky will be blue – the sun will be shining – then 2 minutes later – the sky either gets overcast and cloudy and then the rain and sometimes hail will occur, or the sky will stay clear and the sun will shine brightly; and it will still rain and perhaps start hailing – then 5 minutes later the rain and/or hail stop and the sky will lighten up again.
One year when I was in Seattle I was walking down the street holding onto the building so I wouldn’t slip and fall on the ice. The sky was bright blue and the sun was shining. It was a warm day – yet 5 feet away from me, closer to the street – it was snowing and then above me it started raining. I stopped in amazement and stared at the sky with mouth open. A passerby looked at me and laughed and said – “That’s Washington weather for you.”
Crazy weather there in Washington. Wow! Thank you for reading my piece, Annie. And enjoy that wild Washington weather!
What a truly beautiful from the heart piece of writing,really loved reading it
I thank you once again, Tina. I’m so grateful for your interest and your kindness. This truly makes my heart glad. Thank you so very much.
Such a wonderful and inspiring piece,absolutely loved reading it
Thank you so much, Tina. I’m so glad you enjoyed it. I truly appreciate your kind thoughts and words. Thanks once again.
Great article! Thank you. You write so beautifully. I feel like I’m in your garden!
Thank you so much, Colleen. I’m so glad you enjoyed the piece. There’s something really beautiful about a rainy spring day. Sort of moving, I think. Thanks once again.
The way you portray your garden, the rain…..
It’s absolutely magical poetry ❤️
You make me dream about that beautiful garden, just the way you write, the beautiful images, I can actually feel the love you put – this is the secret of your magical garden « Love »😊🌸🙏
Oh wow, Roxxy – thank you so much for these incredibly beautiful words and thoughts – I’m left nearly completely without words. I’m totally honored and deeply touched. Thank you once again.
You have a way of drawing me into your garden. I feel like I almost see the plants in your pics growing, drinking, reaching up for the sky!! Your garden and everything that lives in it are amazing!! A place to find peace in a world that needs peace and love!! Thank you for bringing into your space bringing me joy!!
How kind of you to say such wonderful things, Sharon – thank you so much! I’m so glad you liked the piece. I really enjoyed writing it. After watching the plants in my garden “living it up” in the rain, the article practically wrote itself. Nature, in all of its forms, really inspires me. I’m so glad you appreciate my ramblings, and I’m glad you’re such a lover of nature’s beauty. Thanks again.
There are shades of green that can only be seen in early spring. All the rain and cool weather work together to give us these incredible shades. We all need to enjoy them while they last! Thanks John for reminding us all about the blessings of this time of year.
How beautifully stated, Kevin. You’re absolutely right. Spring provides an incredible – and unique – opportunity to see nature in a most remarkable light. And the “special effects” which the rain contributes really make for an extra-wonderful sensory experience. Thanks for your excellent thoughts on this subject.
That was a beautiful post John. It moved me. Raining here for two days. I’d go plant in it but for the thunder and lightning.
Thank you, Everly. I’m so glad you enjoyed it. It means a great deal to me that someone of such prodigious creativity and “natural world sensibilities” such as you appreciates my take on my wet little garden. Thanks once again.
Another beautiful essay!
Thanks for sharing your thoughts.
Thank you so much – I’m so glad you enjoyed it!
A very moving article, your connection with nature and your garden is palpable. The rain does bring new clarity to the garden, the colors seem sharpened and our senses too.
Thank you, next rain I’m going outside, I’ll be in the garden!
Thank you so much, Jill. I’m so glad you enjoyed the piece. You’re absolutely right about the nearly-magical effect of the rain in garden spaces. Nature is truly remarkable. Thanks again!
Your posts are beautifully written and invite one into the beauty of gardens. Many thanks
Thank you so much, Rick. I’m so glad you enjoyed it. Gardens do have a way of attracting pollinators and appreciative humans alike!