Mother Nature is a healer. Some of the gladdest moments a person can have are footsteps away – in the outdoors where the vibe is always comforting and consoling. I’ve been doing just that for a few days after a misstep led to a sprained foot that necessitated slowing down.
What initially seems untenable and unfair becomes decidedly something you can bear, spurred on by the sunshine and the sounds of nature – which have inherent healing powers. My preferred “sit spot” is an alfresco sofa on a patio with a view of the garden, a small fishpond, and a glorious tree known colloquially as a “Seven Sons Tree.”
My late friend, the horticulturist Allen C. Haskell, recommended planting this stunning tree as a focal point in our front garden. Its proper name is Heptacodium miconioides and it is noted for its clusters of seven flower buds, fragrant white flowers and peeling tan bark. It is native to China, specifically the mountains of Hubei Province where it is considered rare and vulnerable to extinction. Thanks to the British plant collector Ernest Wilson, it was introduced to Western horticulture in 1907 and later became more widely available in the United States through seeds sent from the Arnold Arboretum in the early 1980s.
In the fall, the quietude of this spot beneath the Seven Sons vanishes with the arrival of the bees. Before you see them, you hear them; loud and insistent, their drone is at a fever pitch now. Unlike most flowering trees that bloom in spring, this one saves up the show for autumn and the bees – honey bees and bumble bees – make their pilgrimage in full frenzied ecstasy.
It’s sensational to lie beneath this mountainous white canopy fully enveloped by the scene. Gazing up you can see their tiny bodies move in arc-like patterns with the precision and dexterity of trapeze artists. They dive into the frothy effervescence of flora, and quickly resurface, moving from bloom to bloom methodically. Watching them has become an annual event here and as a beekeeper it makes me feel very connected.
Getting a close look at the bees you will see them gathering pollen, storing it in combs on their hind legs. When full, these leg sacs resemble cowboy chaps. The insects’ subtle movements send a show of white blossoms down on the seats and table below. The dispensed petals land ever so lightly on the brick terrace and plants below – collecting in the groove between hosta stem and leaf-like foam. It’s as soft and quiet as the falling snow it foreshadows. The scene is suggestive of the confetti tossed by well-wishers at a wedding… a happy mess. I sweep it away, but it continues to fall, so the surfaces are reglazed again, with the bees’ agitations. It’s a lovely sight – and when the show is finally over after weeks of the bee delirium, the tree reveals vivid red, fan-shaped bracts, which give the appearance of it blooming anew.
And so it happens… The last sail. The final plunge into the sea. Shortening daylight. And so many other “endings.” Astonishing how it all happens so suddenly. We’re never prepared for it.
Do you remember those childhood summers when the days seemed to stretch on forever? One-two-three redlight! We’d play until dusk, until our mothers called us home. But the game never really ended – it waited for us, ready to begin again the next evening. We didn’t think in terms of time back then. Each day blended into the next – we didn’t have to check off or hoard the experience. We’d happily chase the summer’s fireflies, creatures as elusive and fleeting as summer itself. You cannot bottle either after all.
Not to sound lugubrious. But we all admit that the summer, even with its hot, humid, harried days is the season of life let loose. It’s the main attraction, the one season we adults measure and countdown – in an attempt to seize it fully.
An hour ‘til sunset, an outline of a waxing moon is visible over the tree line, and the smell of fresh mown lawn lingers while the cricket’s steady song continues. By the front lamppost a ruffle of pink roses punctuates the scene. Life in the garden continues. For a moment I’m transported to a June evening. And then a little chill intrudes, proving it’s just a deception after all. You can no more call it back than your own youth. We have arrived into the next season and there is no turning back.
“The song is ended, But the melody lingers on” – Irving Berlin
The Seaside Gardener
By Laura McLean