Budding Rage, Rooted Lessons
Gardens are places of joy, can be grounding and many times humbly remind us of the ever changing seasons of life. In fact, I got into horticulture in large part because of my rage and I’ve always found that physical work was a healthy outlet (turns out garden therapy is a real thing) and immediately rewarding.
Although I consider myself a plant nerd, I don’t typically get nostalgic over plants. I definitely have opinions about plants, but typically it revolves around their maintenance needs. However, there are a few, less than five we’re talking here, plants that I have a real soft spot for. One of these plants is the lovely bearded Iris.
bearded beauty in spring bloom
A few years ago I was gifted a stunning two-tone purple that didn’t just bloom once in spring but kept coming back in late summer and again in fall, always ending with one final frost-kissed performance. Which is crazy pants. This plant quickly became beloved and a large clump planted front and center in my front yard to be cherished by all who passed by.
Blooming in November
Crazy pants
Recently, I was revamping my front garden bed - I prefer to split and transplant perennials in the Fall. Yes, it’s not technically fall yet, but we’ve had a few days of Fall-like temps and couldn’t help myself. Anyways, I was moving something to help frame up the Iris’ and noticed that they looked a little disturbed. Upon closer examination, I realized some of the tubers were dug up….upon picking up and quickly realizing that the perfect circular hole that spanned the entire tuber was a real bad sign.
Iris borer.
Borer Damage
Bastards
And after pulling away some of the tubers, I saw it: fat, grubby, gross. A borer. Not one, but three fat writhing things, plus two strange shelled versions hiding underground. They had infiltrated everything. The entire focal point of the front garden bed was kaput.
The rage erupted into fire and I had a full on adult tantrum. Or as the cool kids are saying, I was crashing out. Smashing the large grubby burrowers on the driveway with the back of the shovel was satisfying for only the first few. The realization hit fast: they had penetrated everything. Infiltrated. The entire clump was toast. I went ugly and started ripping them apart with my (gloved) hands. These fat jerks are what fishing lures are inspired by. After more smashing, cursing, and even some threwing, my tantrum ended with me pitching the carcass into a black trash bag and fighting the urge to just flop on the ground and sob. This all played out in my front yard mind you - and I live on a fairly busy street in my neighborhood, with at least two nosy neighbors in very close proximity. This scene was definitely seen.
Because it wasn’t just about the Iris. The garden had long since been my refuge, my therapy, now it was the source of rage! I recalled a recent conversation with my very soon to be teenage daughter - “There are assholes everywhere. You’ve got to stay alert, but don’t let them stop you from where you’re trying to go.” It turns out that lesson wasn’t just for her. It was for me too. Because yes, assholes are in fact everywhere, even in the garden. I had failed to stay alert.
In bonsai practice, master Kobayashi will scar his trees on purpose as a reflection of life’s challenges. Those wounds become part of the beauty. These jerks have left a scar in my garden, but it’s not the end. It’s just another fold, another challenge to overcome.
Keep experimenting and Happy Gardening!
