If you have ever created a garden from the ground up, these thoughts will be familiar. If you have ever worked to bring a cut-over patch of woodland back to health, or labored over a newly planted meadow you already know the dedicated labor and watchfulness required. Living in the social upheaval of our times, and wondering how to bring good out of what seems like chaos, I offer these observations of effective regeneration in the natural world, hoping that principles found there can provide guidance for the human social order, as well.
A few years ago, I was charged with creating a half-acre children's garden from a sloped pasture that had been grazed for as long as anyone could remember. In October, a friend and his tractor plowed three, 100 X 30 ft long beds, the first pass to break up the sod, and a second some weeks later to weaken what grass remained in the clods, hoping that winter cold and drying would finish killing it off. Afterwards, we invited visiting students into the garden, to work the soil with shovels and hoes, pulling out still-living weeds and a large quantity of rocks and, by spring, we were ready to plant and heavily mulch the sections of the garden that were to be in use. In the ensuing years, sections of the garden that were not needed for crops became spots where students learned to use gardening tools, thereby keeping weeds at bay. As the garden caretaker, I was there most every day, keeping an eye on the condition of the planted beds - weeding and watering as needed, picking insect pests off of plants, and doing all that I could to keep what we had created in good order. Over time,however, that job became more taxing, as new weed seeds were introduced from the manure and compost that was brought into the garden, and as pests discovered the bonanza of food to be had there. I continually needed to assess my strategies and make adjustments, as conditions dictated.
A couple of years ago, after moving to the house where we now live, I laid down groundcloth and mulch to kill off some sod in our back yard, wanting to create raised beds for propagating native plants. After some months the sod had died off and, expecting to have a blank canvas in which to cultivate the species I planted, I sowed the seeds in late fall, carefully labeled each row, and promptly turned my back on the beds, knowing that those seeds would not germinate until the following spring. In other words, I got lazy. To my chagrin, if not complete surprise, by early spring the beds had been overrun with chickweed and hairy bittercress, cool season weeds that germinate during the winter, and ground ivy, a pernicious trailing perennial that regrows from the tiniest pieces of root or stem. Had I been more watchful, had I mulched between the rows of sown seeds, and I been prepared to remove weeds as they became obvious, I would now have a more productive propagation garden.
A generation or two ago, when woodlands were cut or single trees happened to fall, the newly opened area eventually filled in with the same native tree and shrub species that were already in place. The native seed bank present in the soil allowed for a new crop of trees and shrubs to germinate and begin their journey towards becoming a mature forest. New seedlings would jockey with each other, vying for space and sunlight, until some would win out and grow on into the canopy, while others, better suited to living in the shade, became the understory and shrub layer. Such is not the case in many parts of the eastern United States, any longer. Because of the arrival of exotic species that overrun and choke out native ones, forest regeneration is fraught with setbacks and frustrations. As an example, three Decembers ago, our next door neighbor, in defiance of a Park Service scenic easement, clear cut a portion of the woods that obscured his view of the river. Giant yellow poplars and various oak species came crashing down, and were eventually cut into logs, left to lay on the ground. Now, amid and between the logs, Oriental bittersweet, Japanese honeysuckle and English ivy have taken advantage of the light, growing vigorously, each ready to strangle newly emerging tree seedlings. Now, ground that that was once was shaded, is covered with opportunistic Japanese stilt grass, which exudes a substance from its roots that inhibits the seed germination of other species, thereby limiting growth of a healthy herbaceous ground layer.
In contrast, I know woodland owners who carefully steward their properties, removing invasive vines, working to keep stiltgrass under control and thinning out vigorous native tree species that threaten to overrun slower growing ones on their way to creating an arboreal monoculture. In these landowners' desire to recreate the healthy forests of long ago, they must contend, not only with overly aggressive vines and herbaceous weeds, but also with damaging populations of deer and new tree diseases and insect pests that threaten wide swaths of existing woodlands. These stewards know the need to be vigilant, to provide protection from forces that would negate their best efforts, to nurture both the newly growing and already established forest populations that hold promise.
How might these botanical examples speak to the social needs of our nation, at the moment? I am not a sociologist, but a few seem self-evident. When starting from scratch, or working to rebuild what is damaged, a few precautions will help to grant long term success. If we know what to expect, we can develop plans for countering counter-productive assaults. If we have well-developed goals in mind, we can proactively take steps to steps to limit the damaging forces that might try and destroy what we attempt to create. If we are students of whatever the situation we are trying to rectify, we can learn how to nurture the components that are the most necessary to the health of the whole we are attempting to build.
As important as those tactics might be, we each need to look to and ask ourselves... What damaging attitudes do I harbor that might overrun my efforts to work with others? What aggressive threads of self-interest might be lurking beneath my awareness, threatening to choke out the progress I hope to make? What are my natural gifts and sensitivities, those that I can joyfully employ in the bettering of the world in which I live and work? Restoration of any kind is long and arduous work but, when approached with wisdom and determination, the results are satisfying and life giving. May we all find our place in this seemingly new world in which we live, and contribute our best selves for its highest well-being.
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