LA ROSA'S   GARDEN

                                                     THE SVALBARD SEED VAULT

   It is spring and that means it it time to plant seeds. All winter long I have read seed catalogs to negate the cold cloudy days. I have read the glossy pages and looked at the brightly colored photos yearning for those plump beefsteak tomatoes and enticing zinnias, luscious marigolds and  beckoning crowns of cosmos blossoms. And now it is to stop having fantasies and cut to the chase.

   I have now germinated  cherry tomatoes, and that has given me confidence that the gardening season really has begun. That has also reminded me of my favorite seed vault and it millions of seeds sleeping in the Arctic winter. I am thankful that it is there, floating in my imagination like a phantom island in the dark blue sea off the coast of Norway. There are other seed vaults but Svalbard holds a special place in my psyche.

   Svalbard island was first mentioned in  print in1194, but must have been frequented before that several times earlier by the Vikings, whalers, and the Scandinavians. The island of Svalbard was discovered in 1596 by the explorer Willem Barentsz, and he chose to name it Spitsbergen which means pointed mountain. The island is known today, generally, as Svalbard, and it lies within the Svalbard Island Archipelago which is itself about halfway between Norway and the North Pole. I envision Svalbard as a magnificent ship of carved sandstone and ice "sailing"  magically in the dark blue-black Arctic sea. Svalbard means cold edge or coast named by the Norwegians who felt that it was almost impossible to live there. Today, about 400 humans inhabit the island, among polar bears, seabirds, and the technicians of  of Svalbard Seed Vault. Coal is mined there to fuel the backup generators if the permafrost melts too much. There are no trees except tiny birches that never grow taller than six inches, and there are some lovely wildflowers in ephemeral spring.

   Norway had the magnanimity and forethought to fund Svalbard along with the help of Sweden, Denmark, Finland and the US. The actual seed vault is cut deep, many meters,  into the island's sandstone bedrock and the temperature is a constant 21 to O F.  The vault is high above the sea. The temperature fluctuates very little, but there could be a threat of global warming some day, which has not happened yet, thankfully. That is the thinking behind the coal mining for the backup generators. Let us all hope that human kind will be wise enough to conserve our energy by using fewer electric appliances and cars. In that regard we have too many energy applications. That is why I do not own electric garden tools,  have a garage door openers, or many TVs.

   Svalbard possesses 1,355,592 accessions representing 13, 000 years of human agriculture, and it has room enough to reach 4 million seeds. This is all contained in and intelligently designed structure that juts out into the Arctic night; the walls are covered in wonderful art---appropriate for the Arctic day and night. The 200 fiber optic-cables give the vault a muted greenish-turquoise and white light. It has a ghostly, otherworld glow. Take a look on the internet of the NPR (USA funded) special narrated by Jeff Bennett of the spectacular photographs and descriptions by Bennet. The beauty of Svalbard and the descriptions by Bennett are incisively portrayed.

   I will cite here as a tribute to the purpose and ethos words by the Quechua farmers. They travelled all the way from the Peruvian Andes to Svalbard to deposit in the vault seeds of their sacred potato varieties.

   "In song and prayers they said goodbye to the seeds as their 'loved ones' and endeared 'children'. We're not just leaving genes, but also a family one farmer told a Svalbard official." No more need be said.

A giant stem of wild rice was  sculpted by Mitsuaki Tanabe, and completed by his son, and then placed inside the crypt that is the seed vault of Svalbard--a fitting tribute to the imaginative energy that the seed is, in every act of creativity such as painting, music, writing, and of course, the planting of a seed. 

   Seeds are precious vessels of being, each seed a veritable space ship that provides a future existence  sailing along like ships with leafage sails, powered by the Sun's warmth and the sanctity of water. Without the Sun, water, and seeds, humans would perish very fast. The founders and supporters of Svalbard are not necrophils but are true lovers of life, of humanity.

                                                                                              Frank La Rosa 

                                                                                              The Vernal Equinox 2026

                                                                                                   

    

 

 

SEEDS

                                                                            SEEDS

                                           Seeds will sprout and grow eternally

                                                 through cracks in the concrete

                                                 even from under concrete.

                                            Seeds easily grow in rotted logs and planks of wood.

                                            They heave their shoulders and spinal columns upward

                                            Cracking their birthbed of earth,

                                                 pointing leaves upward--

                                            Swaying and dancing in spirals--

                                                 nodding with

                                                  the axis of  sun and its earth--

                                              Grass-like leaves

                                                   waving in breaths of breeze.

                                               We will always be here--

                                               Sighing and saying--

                                                    "we are here, now, and forever,"

                                                Nutational spirals to the blue sky  

                                                     "We are here eternally"

                                                 Our brutal swelling energy

                                                       breaks in gentleness

                                                        the surface of the earth--upward--

                                                        to the cosmic heavens.

                                                                                                                                      Frank La Rosa

                                                                                                                                       February 23, 2026

                                

                                                 

                                                

      

     

                                                 

                           

                                            

                                                                SPROUTING SEEDS

                                                                              by  

                                                                      Frank La Rosa

                                     April is the cruelest breeding month, breeding

                                     Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

                                     Mixing memory and desire, stirring

                                     Dull roots with spring rain

                    The Waste Land  Part one  "The Burial of the Dead"     T. S, Eliot

   "April is the cruelest Month"  T. S. Eliot tells us. Yes, from my experience and that of  many others it appears a universal truth both poetically and in practical reality. April grants us a little apercu of warming, of the grace of spring. But, it tricks us in to thinking  that the warmth is going to occur  constantly. Then it sends us  little chills reminding us of the past winter's grim cold and reminds us that we do not control Nature. For me, the poetry speaks Truth. April, is not necessarily cruel, it simply shows us how Nature can be, is: of how itself is--both triumphantly positive and yet a chilling remainder that life has its tragic element--death. And that is cruel!

   Seeds are the quintessential symbol, like April, of growth and the possibility of demise, or, in more practical down to earth terms, damp off. As gardeners we all know this. They are easy enough to germinate, yet for some seeds it is a task to keep them alive and growing. They are precisely like newborn children who require work, care, and of course, Love. For we gardeners, this means that seeds require attention daily attention and responsibility as we look after them every morning on that sunny windowsill. It's like a mother who wakes up in the middle of the night to check on her child--to my way of thinking. This is why I am very careful with the amounts of water I give to seedlings--too much and they damp off and die. Keep the seed bed medium damp but not wet. This in itself is perceptive art learned through experience. And water only in the morning, allowing the new seeds leaves to dry off before night comes on with dreaded fungi. Human touch and experience are the best of moisture meters!

   Sprouted seeds need a moderate woozy kind of light--nothing too bright or desert-like hot or they will parch. Growing them on an eastern windowsill has always been for me the best place. With most seeds that is. There, they receive the ascending morning light. Ascendency is energetic. It is the burgeoning energy of morning minus the zenith of that "red rock' sun at noon. A light misting of the new leaves is a laving that lets them know they are in caring hands. Use a sprayer bottle to do this.

   After the seedlings have at least two or more true leaves it is time to harden them off. They must be acclimated to the site where you want them to spend their lives.  If you have germinated  tomatoes, lettuce, or other vegetable, for example, place the seedling in a protected place outdoors, first for a few hours and then for a few days to get them used to overnight temperatures.

   For further protection, I build quarter inch mesh boxes to cover these outdoor, hardening-off seedlings. I have had these succulent creatures decimated by birds and wretched rats and mice. Remember Eliot, April and its cruelty? It is a sad thing to come out in the morning and see ones plant creatures wasted,

   Finally, after the seedlings are strong-- 2 to 3" tall or more, pick them out with a sharp stick and gently plant them in situ. Again, they might need protection such as wire mesh covers or cloches of some kind. Very light organic fertilizer is appropriate now. No harsh MiracleGro or chemical nutrition. I have found that chemical fertilizers zap the young seedlings with a fertilizer that should be used much later in their life cycle--to bring on blossoming and fruiting. At this youthfulness they only need gentleness and the intentionality of love. 

   Look them over every morning, and start placing 5 to 6' poles near the plant bases (hammer them in hard) so that as they grow taller, tie them up, (use twine or torn stripes of cotton rag) to guide them on their life's journey to growth, flowering and fruition.

   A short comment is in order now. I know I have emphasized vegetable seedlings here, but actually these  comments can apply to the germination of almost any seeds, the emphasis being on the careful, attentive caring part.

   To be even more complete, save a few seeds in the refrigerator and plant them next season so that your plants will live again into burgeoning new  life. Goethe and Rudolph Steiner  ( of Anthroposophy) see flowering and fruition as the high point that culminated in the plant's death and resurrection or transcendence. In fact, plants often flower profusely just before they are about to die. Have you ever noticed that? The plant has spent everything that it has to generate  new flowers and seed. I think Eliot meant this when he said April evokes "memory and desire"  in "The Waste Land". And I carry in me that Emily Dickenson meant the exact same thing when she said "every flower a resurrection". She loved plants so much. Her pressed plant collection is in the Houghton Library of Harvard.

. . 

   

  

                                                                 

                                                                  A NEW MOVE 

    During the fifties our family moved from Pittsburgh to Miami. We eventually settled in North Miami where my father bought a house from a friend he had known for a long time. It was our new home for several years until my brother and I went off to college. After that my parents sold it and moved back to Pittsburgh.

   Our new home was situated on high land about 16 feet above sea level (high for South Florida) in an ancient copse of giant live oaks where the air was humid and dense especially after the daily rains that saturated the sandy sea sand earth that contained very small fossil seashells from even more ancient seas. Air plants, ferns, and  waving Spanish moss grew among the heavy almost horizontal-stretching tree limbs. It was a Nature lover's paradise for a young boy, with various tropical lizards and the occasional snake.   The humid gently moving air and earthy scented heat made any degree of physical activity almost impossible.

   My father bought new appliances for our home; a washer and clothes dryer, a kitchen stove, and a refrigerator, and they were delivered from Sears and Roebuck in a big lumbering van driven by a white boss and a Black helper. The moving work was hot and sweaty. The Black man did most of the laborious lifting and moving of the appliances into the house and into the garage where there was some relief of coolness and shade from  burning sub tropical sun.

   At the end of the appliance installation,  the two men were wasted and drenched in sweat. They slowly walked back to the van parked under the moss laden oaks, and both workers sat down for a short rest on the bench seat before driving back to the store.

   My father saw how exhausted they were and offered them some cold water. The white man drank off the water poured out by my Dad from the ice cube tinkling pitcher first, but he didn't make a gesture to offer any to his Black helper who was sitting next to him in abject silence.

   Then Dad said, "What about him, your helper? Doesn't he need some too--here, give him this glass of water."  The boss man said, "He don't need no water."  Dad was intensely silent for a moment, staring at the ground. Lifting his head to eye level he said, "Well, if he doesn't get any water, you don't get any more either." 

    Dad walked to the other side of the truck and poured out the water and handed the cold, sweating glass of water through the rolled down truck window  to the helper who waited for a long time as though thinking, and then drank the water.

   The boss sat there stunned and motionless.

   Dad took back the two glasses and pitcher, and he walked up the front red tile steps of our home.

                                                                              Frank La Rosa Mazza        May 2022

 

                                                    Gardening From the Ground Up

                                                                           by

                                                          Frank La Rosa Mazza

                                                                          and

                                                              Franky Caracia, guest gardening advisor.

                               

   During the forty years that I have gardened here in Del Mar, California, I have built up a very deep layer of top soil above the native clay or hardpan.  This created precious earth is  a rich, black loam at least a foot deep, and in some areas of the garden, it is fourteen inches deep. I truly cherish it like a cherished antique of beauty and value beyond dollar value.  As you know, our basic "earth" here in coastal California is impossible to thrust a spade into, so we have to create the "ground" of  our gardens by continual gardening effort.  And this takes a long time, even years as in my case.

   I collect every particle of leaf and plant detritus that I can get my hands on. I also chop and grind up the bigger pieces of  plants and shrubs. Egg shells and coffee grounds also help. This can be laborious especially with the plant and shrub remnants, but this is what making compost entails. This is the basis of good gardening.

   The tree leaves are the easiest to use. Simply rake them up (no leaf blowers allowed) and spread them around the plants and put them in the beds. Encircle these leaves with bricks, chunks of stone or small pieces concrete medium pieces or even with heavy pieces of wood as short piece of railroad ties or pieces of concrete,  or even short pieces of old, aged railroad ties. This keeps the detritus in place and the rest of the garden looking neat and well kept. Keep the detritus well watered to help in the decomposition process. This moisture is essential for bacteria. These containment rings of stone or brick make what Alan Palmer (lived to be 100) called "Plant Islands", and they work very well in retaining moisture, stopping weed growth, providing gentle nitrogen, and best of all making that rich black compost that is so loaded with nutrients and food for birds. I admire Palmer, a self made man, who left school at 16, who could do many things with his mind and hands.  This created earth will have the rich texture of Devil's Food cake and smell almost as good! Over the years, this compost evolves into the gold of gardening, and here in Southern California it helps make a true garden.

   I complain all the time that I have rake  up the leaves that fall from the neighbors' uncared for, unpruned trees that drop voluminous amounts of leaves on my property. But instead of complaining I should really thank them, write a handwritten letter that says how valuable their proliferated leaves are. So, I rake them and place them in the plant island-rings. Sure, this takes work but this is what creates  that relinquish acids organic compound, minerals, and best of all, create a beautiful texture, that is really pleasing to the eye in contrast to excessive to water guzzling lawn.

   To create a viable garden requires work and most of all Care, not leaf blowers, chemical fertilizers, fancy pants tools, nor abstract ideas. Of course, one could go over to the garden center or supermarkets and buy numerous bags of compost from who knows where, but that would not be Care of a personal kind. Yet, it would show a Care of a kind, I suppose. But, that thin expensive layer would only last one season at the most, and then it would need to be reapplied over and over again. Re-coated like paint. By replenishing with leaves and plant detritus,  you create a living, renewable "Ground" of being for every green plant that you wish to grow. You create an Old Garden, a similitude to  Old People. Old Gardens have an almost apparent wise beauty.

   The word "compost" literally means bringing  together, a Unity, from the Latin componere) . Isn't gardening a Unity, a bringing together of Composts, plants, birds, animals, insects such as bees, and most of all,  people who have something to say,  to talk with other? 

                                                                                                                     

                                                                                                                             

 

   

                                             CELEBRATE THE WINTER SOLSTICE

                                                                  by Frank La Rosa Mazza

Years ago I planted  a few small gallon size pyracanthas, old variety poinsettias, Indian hawthorn,  and deep green needled conifers (Japanese black pines). White blossoms, red berries,  and green pine branches.

Now I have a natural winter garden of reds and greens that bespeak the Spirit of Christmas without my having to rely on commercial  store bought decorations and ornamentation.

The pyracanthas have grown into massive bright red berried  shapes that set off the front garden in Christmas, beautiful shapes of bright red, and the birds love the plump berries. Poised on both side of the front planter bed, they are seasonal flames. Everybody likes 'em

A long time ago (molti anni fa} I was able to get some poinsettia cuttings; not the hot house forced types or the varieties packed on shelves at Walmart. These cool poinsettias are the variety that were grown thirty or forty years ago by the old Italians in their Little Italy front yard gardens. Now, few of these jewel like gardens remain, alas--the condos are wiping them out. Every year developer does a scrape that obliterates the past.

These old poinsettias are hardy, tough, with brilliant red bracts that last a long time, and grow  ten to twelve feet tall. The plants themselves should be planted in full sun to produce full bracts of bright red color. They are perennial, of course, and are easy to maintain.

These poinsettia cuttings strike roots easily in gallon cans when taken in July and August and kept in a protected place, not too hot. Later on, they they can be planted in situ as and when you think they are big enough to continue growth on their own--now they will need attention and lots of water until they feel secure to continue on with their lives. They will then repeat the red bracts year after year--a remembrance of their former Italian owners. It's always a courtesy, respect,  to ask the original owners politely for a gift of a few cuttings. I have never been denied anywhere when I approached the old occupants with care and appreciation, and have had many an interesting chat at that. Plants too are social. Old world, eh?

As for the nuovo Walmart poinsettias, they too can be propagated from cuttings (not as vigorous and tall growing), hardened off, and carefully planted eventually in situ. Care, Sorge--that's the key, and one day they may reach heights of beautiful seasonal color.

The old ethnic inner city gardens are sources of Christmas treasures. I look out for them all the time while driving or walking around (sans cell phone of course) in those ethnic neighborhoods because I want to see who used to live there and maybe remember them. The owners are always generous and care that you care about plants: "Oh, my grandmother planted them years ago when they first moved here, from Italy, Mexico, Vietnam, or where ever."

A Natural Christmas is one that lives on.

Frank La Rosa Mazza Dec 22, 2021.

 

 

 

                                         Solstice Passing    17 December 2021                  

                                                       by Frank La Rosa Mazza

Deep blue cold sky and sunny bright air, crystal clear--

A burning sun compasses a low arch across the southern sky in late afternoon.

In the sea, deep shadows in the wake of its grey steely waves.

This time of year only a few days till the Winter Solstice--

      is difficult.

The angle of the sun, even though it is a bright sun,

      reveals darkness in me, a sad melancholy

     for all those I have known and have died, gone.

The light is intensely bright

      but ungivingly cold,. chilled.

.

Care is a state in which something does 'matter'; care is the opposite. of apathy. p. 269

Heidegger 'thinks of care as the basic constitutive phenomenon of human experience.'

 p. 290 

                                                                                         LOVE and WILL by Rollo May

                             What does care for a garden mean?   By Frank La Rosa Mazza

   Most people in suburbia want the status, ownership (possession) and luxury of owing a house that is situated on a large enough piece of land to grow a garden. They want to be the quintessential Willy Loman who follows the American dream. But, they, unlike, Willy, don't care about maintaining a garden, or what that even means and they  live in houses that today cost two to three million plus.

   Nor do some homeowners care about living things that come along with the material possession of a home with a back and front yard.  The plants were 'popped in' by the builders.  So, it would probably be best for society and the few noncaring homeowners in mindless, middleclass America to live in apartments or highrise condos where you can't open the windows for the spring breezes, hear the birds singing, nor walk bare foot on the grass, and you have to call the garage valet to get out your car out to drive. Prison?

   Nevertheless, status, as a result of owning that house in suburbia, is indelibly stained into the middleclass mindset. And it is a good thing for a lot of us. But for some, owning is a powerful hierarchical obsession, for those who think they have made it, (moved on up) risen up in the affluent push button tech world.   And, they don't mind shelling out a lot of money, and not taking personal, down to earth care of their gardens. I like getting my hands into the rich earth that I have made from my own compost.  And, if they do care a little bit, to save face among their neighbors, they gladly pay the " mow and blow" so-called 'gardeners'   who are further proof of material status. These "mow and blow" guys never use a rake, touch the earth, or plant in the earth, and they blow allergenic, toxic dirt and dust into the air. Their blowers make an inordinate obnoxious noise, (like grunting bulls) especially when one is listening to music!

   Yes, there are those who can't because of serious reasons give care to a garden. I am aware of that. 

   But, on my daily walks through my suburban neighborhood, I observe many examples of the lack of care for living plants, trees and birds. The gardens are sere, dry, and almost dead.  These gardens are a symbolic microcosmic proof of the deficit of love and care for the planet Earth. The Green Earth upon which we all live and depend, and love. What I sometimes see on my walks is often similar to walking into an office (even a medical office) and seeing unwatered, dying plants. And nobody cares! 

   We are defined by what we care about. Soren Kierkegaard called this Sorge the Danish word for Care. I don't trust people who allow their plants to dry up and die. This makes me wonder what else they allow to die. 

   Even the people keep an African violet or a philodendron on a windowsill have Care. They have kindness.

                                                                                                                   Frank La Rosa Mazza 

                                                                                                                   26 November 2021.

                                                                                                                   

   

   

. 

                                                                                        

                                                                   SEA SHELL ARCH

                                                                                   by

                                                                       Frank La Rosa

                                                              

   I've taken as the model or image for my my clay sculpture a small remnant of a seashell. That piece of shell must have broken off the main shell many years ago, and the sea tumbled and polished it for who knows how long--hundreds even thousands of years--rolled and caressed by the waves until one day it was cast up on the beach,  I saw it and picked it up. 

   This tiny remnant is the opening to the shell where the mollusk or sea creature goes out and comes back into its home. This passageway is long and spiral-ribbed like the rest of the shell, but it is polished like smooth porcelain.  The opening forms a kind of elongated arch  that leads out from inner security, a home, to the outer world of the sea which is the creature's outer home. All of our lives exist in and through arches.

   This creature's body is composed  mostly of water and some minerals, but in spite of this its somewhat amorphous, flaccid body has the intelligence to have created a very hard protective shell, a doorway, and even a door. This sea creature, like its fresh water cousins, created a smooth entryway, shiny and slippery, and of the right proportions for egress and reentry. It has also made its own hinged door called an operculum, a fitted lid that the soft bodied mollusk can open and close as it feels fit and that is appropriate to all occasions; to keep itself safely enclosed and keep out dangers of all kinds, except possibly that of mankind. The operculum is a finely made valve, if you think about it that way,  that the creature both shuts out and keeps closed securing it being. It can "Then- close the Valves of her attention- /Like Stone", to quote Emily Dickinson.

The soul selects its own society,  Emily Dickinson

    

                                                            A  GARDEN of REMEMBRANCE

                                                                       PLANT MEMORIES

                                                                             

   It is of significance to me that I live on a cul-de-sac named Recuerdo Cove. The word Recuerdo is 'ricordi'  in Italian and means the same thing--memories. Ricordi di Napoli and all that.

   Once many years ago,I mentioned to my clarinet teacher that we had recently moved to a new  house on a street called Recuerdo Cove. He mused for a long moment in his silent Icelandic way, held his chin, had a distant gaze in his eyes, and  said, "What a very fascinating name". I have never forgotten that. Only an imaginative artist musician would make a comment like that. In fact, I have never heard any persons who live here in this cul-de-sac say anything at all about the name 'Recuerdo'. This Cove is a magical place. I wonder if they feel that way also about it?   We have lived here for forty three years, within sight of the blue Pacific, on the rim of a canyon that is filled with animals and plants of many kinds. Sometimes these animals come up into our back garden: raccoons, opossums, rabbits, ground squirrels, foxes, snakes, many different and beautiful birds, and butterflies. Our garden is a sanctuary of the living.

   I have always thought that Recuerdo is a name holding a deep symbolic meaning. After reading Proust's great creative testament to life and memory I feel even more the power of Recuerdo-Ricordi. I often wonder what it would be like to live without a memory. Proust's life was almost all memory.

   My garden is inhabited with with many presences, people that I have known and loved. I encounter them every day as I work in my garden, tend to the plants, and think about the givers of numerous plants. This evocation of memory is not a conscious or deliberate thing. It simply occurs as I see what each particular plant needs for its care and continued existence, as it stimulates and evokes memory almost unconsciously, I would suggest. 

   This consideration about memory is not mere sentimentality. And, some observers would say that the experiencing of memory is an actual living of sorts in the past. I do not think that memories  are only a regressive. Actually when we have memories we are experiencing a very powerful occurrence in our present lives, and this in turn stimulates and informs our present lives. So, memory in this sense is alive and in the present. When we read Proust's "Remembrance of Things Past", we are experiencing his memories raised to the level of art that stimulates our imaginations in the present.

   Botanically speaking, all plants carry with them a kind of plant memory. Botanic reference books tell us a great deal of information about each plant's history. Each plant has a genus and species, and we are given its place of origin, climate needs, growing conditions, and innate habits. This is a plant memory: a kind of collective memory similar to the collective or group memory of animals.

   The plants in my garden have all of that, but they have much more because they evoke something transcendent to the labeling of genus and species. In the 'Hortus Conclusus', our 'protected garden', plants evoke feelings and memories.

   As I make my early morning rounds through my garden, it is impossible for me to separate each plant's botany, new growth, condition, and blossoming from those who gifted the plant to me. There are so many plants that do this in my garden. Each plant in the truest sense is a Blossoming of Memory.". Each plant has a being, an emotional aura, a special palpable presence. Some writers would call this being an astral presence, but for me the plants are that presence and simply great stimulators of imagination and memory. I try not to think about it all too much--it simply happens.

   One of the most indelible plant memories in my garden is the Mermaid rose which is an offspring of Rosa Bracteata and the Macartney rose. The Mermaid is an extremely vigorous rose and even grew for many years in the hottest weather in Denton, Texas where my father-in-law once had it. He brought the Mermaid as a cutting wrapped in wet paper in his boot in the trunk of his car. Therefore, he claimed that he "bootlegged" it to our home in Del Mar, California. I think of this when I see the Mermaid.

   The Mermaid is one of the most beautiful of roses; large blossoms with yellow centers, creamy edges, and yellow stamens, and  the scent is fruity and the breath of springtime. And like the mermaids or sirens of ancient mythology,  this rose has a powerful dark side or shadow. "She" can grow to twenty feet high or more (mine is almost up to the second story), and "She" has backward curved lethal, protective thorns that will not release from skin or clothing, and they really hurt! 

   I have made many cuttings and air layers of this rose as we have moved from one home to another, and now on Recuerdo Cove I have two large specimens of this memory plant which is appropriately within view of the Pacific Ocean.  The sea breezes are to her liking, and she reminds me of my father-in-law's gifting every time I care for it. 

   Memory is an energy that resides where it wishes, but there is a dual energy in a living plant; that of  the plant itself and that of the name-energy that went into the gifting of the plant. The name is a residual memory of the giver and grows along side  the gardener as he or she cares for and remembers the person who gifted the plant. As the ancient Egyptians said, as long as the name is uttered, the person and the soul live.  In this case, the giver-the plant-the gardener- and the remembrance are united. For me they cannot be cleaved into separate parts in my consciousness, nor should they be. Remembrance.

   Seeds sent in the mail in envelopes from one person to another are veritable sparks of light. They scintillate with life. And, they will not acquiesce, nor will they be repressed. The seed will not deny itself! It rejects omnipotence in all other beings because each seed in itself is potentia. The very same can be said for tiny plantlets or sprig of plants, such as those of Spanish moss--Tillandsia usneoides.

   Many years ago, my father sent me in a letter from my childhood home in Miami a tiny sprig of Spanish moss. I remember Spanish moss and other air plants festooning the massive live oaks that surrounded our house.  This sprig refused to be overcome by the long journey in a dry envelope. The power of the Life Force! I placed this partially withered sprig onto the branch of one our trees, and it quickly sprang into life,  reproduced, and encircled the twigs and branches tenaciously. Now Spanish moss is a vibrant tenant growing in several trees of my garden, and so much so that I have to remove some of it from time to time.

   The trick to growing it is in placing  the Tillandsia spriglets on trees that receive moderate sunlight. But even more important, is to have a lower story or bedding of plants that are watered frequently and emit moisture upward into the trees and the Spanish moss.  The moss is caught between the moisture of the earthy plants and the leafy canopy of trees, and as I look up into the branches and moss, I have images of my father who wanted me to have the ambiance of his own Florida garden.

   These seeds and sprigs of tiny plants are living, orant vessels of life, and they carry with themselves the places and persons from which they have been given.

Frank La Rosa

September 10, 202

 

 

  

 

                                                                 AUCTORITAS


Auctoritas is the first of the nine Roman virtues. The others are Comitas, Firmitas, Dignitas, Gravitas, Humanitas, Liberalitas, Potentia,  and Severitas.


    From the Latin words themselves it is relatively easy to understand what they mean. But if one wants to go into their deeper meaning or significance, there are plenty of sources available, on or off the internet. Or, in books.

   So what does Auctoritas have to do with gardening? It has to do with authority or approval. We don't need anyone's approval as to how to grow our own garden! As Voltaire said in Candide. It is our garden, even if it is a windowsill row of African Violets, which I have, or a several acre plot. For most of us it's the housing development sized lot. Some are small or large. Mine is large.  This is purely luck or fortune, from the Latin "fortunas". I love that word.

   The point is that we don't need any approval to work in or to enjoy our garden. No one is there to judge or criticize or to say that what we are doing is right or wrong. As one writer in the Penguin Book of Garden Writing states it, we can do what we want, or as we please.  What we do matters only to us and not to anyone else. We are the true practitioners of Auctoritas. There is no right or wrong, correct or incorrect. Whatever we like or enjoy doing is our business.  For me, doing it my way, the way I want to, is refreshing, empowering and deeply pleasing.

   This appears to be simplistic. But it isn't when one considers popular taste, community approval, status, what so-called experts dictate,  what the books tell us or anything else that comes from external authority, which is different from Auctoritas.

   The art and act of gardening comes from within. And, to be a good gardener, one has to be an artist, and that is why so many people love gardening and gardens. All gardeners are artists.  It proceeds from the personal center or core of one's essential being--thus Auctoritas.

    Also, the creation of ones own garden takes a very long time to achieve, like the inside of  ones own home: the colors, furnishings, collected objects, framed photos, paintings and drawings.  It is not something that the landscapers and garden designers tell us that can be  "popped right in". If you pay the money and we do the job. No. This is the antithesis of true gardening because the garden is a creative act and grows out from the Soul. Yes,  designers can possibly help, but they also must have Soul, and they have to work with the Soul of the person (if he or she can) who is asking for their help and expertise, and paying them for advice.

   On a practical level, it has taken me a very long time to understand the characteristics of my little piece of land; how it sits in relation to my house. How and where the winds blows on it or the sun shines on it, or even to know how my neighbors have neglected to care for or properly trim their own  trees. Somehow they think cared for trees are not a part of a garden.  For instance, nothing that enjoys sun and breezes will grow in the deep cold shade created by the neighbors' trees to my south.  These are no longer urban garden trees: huge sycamores, ficus nitidas,  out of control ash trees,  tall pittosporums,  rampant Brazilian peppers. They have run wild and are beyond being garden trees at thirty to forty feet tall, very dense all the year. They do not belong in an urban garden setting unless regularly trimmed by good tree workers.

  The same for the neighbor trees to the East and the West of my plot. For six months in my back garden bed there is cold shade because of their neglected trees--no roses or gardenias will grow there. They had those trees  "popped in" thirty years ago, and then they forgot them. They consider them utilitarian for privacy. So, these monster trees suck up your water, nutrients, and life giving sun. There was neither gardening intentionality nor planning in their being planted. Some garden-center clerk told them what to do! So, I,  have had to plant my rose garden in the center of my garden  plot. As my father told me,  "Keep the center of the garden open from large overwhelming trees and shrubs," and this is good advice. Many true gardeners have agreed with me. Openness in some part of the garden is one way to create a feeling of expansiveness. Monty Don talks about this all the time. Psychologists tell us that people feel better when they can see outwardly. You don't feel hemmed in when you look out the window into the garden. There is a sense of freedom, even of hope, I would say.
   So, attention to the lay of the land and the position of the house (home) is essential, and that has taken me 45 years to understand. This, year as every year, I am growing seven or eight varieties of tomatoes in fifteen gallon black plastic cans. They are placed where the sun is constant, dependable and very bright. Up against the south wall. They love it there. That's the way I do it, and do you think that some know-it-all dillitante "professional" is going to tell me what to do and where to grow my tomatoes? Forget it! Growing tomatoes requires skill derived from personal experience, knowledge, and what I want for myself and my family.
   But most off all a garden acquires a special spirit or Soul with age. Age is a Soul maker. It has taken my garden years to get that layering, that patina of having lived; mossy places, twisted and gnarled tree trunks, falling leaves in fall, footsteps worn in places where I walk every day. I see this patina of love and age in European gardens mostly. Except for a few old gardens, America is too young. I often worry about what will happen to my garden when I leave this earth--will somebody improve it, build a condo, rebuild,  by doing  "a scrape"? Most of all there are memories of so many people in my heart who have given me plants. My garden is "peopled" with plants. They are growing in my garden  "in absentia", and always will be present as long as I am here to acknowledge their plant gifts, their gardening advice, the lovely specimen-plants that have matured over the years. You can't just "pop that in"--no way.
   Auctoritas means as the ancient Romans conceived it,  that which one does with ones  intentionality. It is the same in speech, playing music, good cooking,  love, hate, a teaching, voice in writing, or anything else worth doing well.  Where there is no Auctoritas there is no true intentionality, and a  Garden of Soul possesses Auctoritas.

Frank La Rosa Mazza 19 June 2020



 

                       

                                                 

                                                        In Silence Is All Potentiality
                                                                          May  


   We perceive the silent center of the vortex in our own gardens, just as Orpheus did as he was

playing his harp to all the animals and plants of the  forest. The silences occur between the beats--

between the beats of music, between the beats of our hearts, between whatever is happening

in our own lives. All that we need to do , as Franz Kafka said,  is to wait in silence, to be still, and all

will come into us.

In the garden there are sacred, silent moments, like moments in a whirling vortex of being.

In my garden, and yours, the silences come and bring with them the buzz of bees and other insects,

the cricket's song between the pausings, the special spaces among the bird songs,  the waitings for the

the woodpecker to resume its staccato hammering; these are the sacred interstitial centers of all life,

and Orpheus heard and knew them all.




I think of the heart in its gracious, consistent beating. It does this all our lives, yet it has its silent

moments between the systolic and diastolic muscular actions (between the pulses), and in between

these two actions where are the silences?  They are there, between the systole and the diastole,

between the contracting and expansion of our heart. These silences are actually little deaths.

I often wonder if mystics can hear the sounds and the silences of growing seeds. I think that Orpheus

heard them ,and this is why the animals and plants listened in awe to his music.

                                           
                                                   SILENCES

                                            The bees whisper

                                             their musical humming

                                             through noon's sun washed

                                             susurration of soothing sound and light--

                                             eternal Orpheus moments--

                                             between their beating wings.

                                             These are the stillnesses--

                                             the silent pauses

                                              that wait and hide

                                              among the wings,

                                              like frightful voids separating

                                               the systolic and diastolic

                                               pausings of the heart,

                                               creating a necklace

                                               of golden threaded beads--

                                               intermittent moments

                                               of life and--

                                               little deaths


                                           
                                             
                                                                                                      Frank La Rosa Mazza
                                                                                                      May 2020
 

                                           

                                                   



       

                             

                                     


   

 

April is the Month of Openings

                                                 April is the Month of Openings
                                                         Evocations of Seeds
                                                                      by
                                                      Frank La Rosa Mazza


   I will spare you the many words written about April--"April is the cruelest month'' and all that stuff  academics adore. I am certain that you have heard many of these platitudinous intellectualizations  about April. So, I shall write of my own experience of April and Spring.  As I see it

   Yes, April is the month of openings, and the greatest of these is the Opening that comes into and out of ourselves. And,  it is also that marvelous Opening, inward and outward, into the dark silent rooms of the Soul that leads to the inner Self that occurs in our own  garden. When we are truly alive,  present in our own protected garden, called the hortus conclusus (the walled garden), the Self peers out to us from the fecund wet, spongy earth  through which the insistent spear-leaves pierce with audacious certitude; this leaf demanding display of lily blades and their flowers, the buzzing of bees and other insects, the sunning lizards, the feel of the sun on ones cheek--all of this is an Opening.
    The greatest of these Openings is that miracle of sprouting seeds.
     I spend my pre-April days looking at the pictures of flowers and fruits and plants in seed catalogs: the " Strictly Medicinal Seeds" catalog by Richo Cech and family and the "J. L. Hudson Seedsman Ethnobotanical Catalog of Seeds"  from La Honda, California. These are true seed catalogs prepared by people who dearly love seeds and plants and have devoted their lives to them. Both catalogs have a special voice and tone. These are qualities you don't get with the corporate world writing. Then, I order the seeds. I await them to arrive in the mail.  "Will they come today? Ah, they've come!"
    If you want to sprout the seeds early indoors, it is best to sterilize the earth that you plant the seeds in. This will prevent the gardener's bane called damping off. The most crucial and dangerous point in a seed's existence (or any birth) is immediately after it sprouts. This is when damping off can occur, and then one could feel so very bad. What had looked like a new beginning has died.  All you have for your efforts is a limp, seed stalk, two limp seed-leaves, and no hope for the future.
   To avoid all of this, wash out the seed growing containers in extremely hot even boiling water, or with chlorox water  (one teaspoon per gallon), or best of all, use a microwave proof dish to zap the earth you have placed in it.   Zap for five to seven minutes the earth that you will need, or even ten minutes if you are compulsive.  Do this zapping by microwave,  and the fungi, viruses,  weed seeds, and the other enemies of the sprouting seeds will be rendered inert. Now the seeds will sprout safely and healthily.
   I have a neat set up in my garage. I load the zapped earth into clean plastic pots and place them on electric seed sprouting heat mats. These electric mats keep the earth and the seeds at about 75-80F degrees, thus avoiding that cold, wet time of cool weather if the seeds are sprouted outdoors. Later, after two or more true leaves appear, I place these pots and their inhabitants out in the sun, gradually hardening them off to their new environment. I often bring the pots back indoors at night, especially if there is bad weather such as cold heavy, hard rain.
   In the garage set up, I have a controlled  seed sprouting situation that is safe and relatively easy. And, I can sleep easy at night. Yes, I am overly responsible
A soil thermometer (Ugh-'soil,' an ugly word at least to my mind) helps to make sure that the mats are working,  keeping the temperature right for germination. Granted,  'soil' is an acceptable word in some gardening contexts.
    What a gift, that after only three days you will see  lettuce seeds sprouting with their hypocotyls  (stems) heaving their bent over baby backs out of the damp earth, and the first seed leaves will be greeting you and this world of light. Everything seems right again when this sprouting birth happens.
    If there is anything that I believe in at all, it is this: seeds are always sprouting anywhere and somewhere in the world. Claire Leighton, the wonderful engraver artist, observed this and said that seeds are "beyond borders". They don't bow down to political regimes, dictators, repressive governments,  nasty people, or "their lonely betters." They love  cracks in sidewalks. In fact they can heave sidewalks. They will not be repressed. They are audacious!


                                                                                                                              FLR-M
                                                                                                                              18 April 2020


   

 

                                  Nature is a temple where the living pillars
                                  Permit, from time to time, confused words to escape . . . .

                                   "Correspondences"  by Charles Baudelaire
                                   William H. Crosby, translation


                                                MARCH  CORRESPONDENCES
                                                               by Frank La Rosa


   March is the month of the living Force of nature that the Romans named after the god Mars. This essential Force of nature is the life energy that flows through all plants and animals; the Romans observed it as a 'vis' or 'virtu', and it can also be seen as an 'elan vital'.  Being a living Force, the Romans also saw it manifested as an agricultural power to be propitiated with spring rites and rituals.
   Mars is the god of boundaries and limits. The Force marches inexorably to the climax of summer, the season of deep green leafiage, blossoms, fruits of all kinds, and intense growth. I see the Force marching in step like a Roman legion to its appointed destiny on the edges of the empire. The Italian province of Marche was once considered a borderland or frontier between two ancient kingdoms both facing the sea. It was the same in regard to Wales, the border of western England.
   For us as gardeners, March is that month of sun,  plants, and  bees infused with a primal, energy that proceeds  in a relentless march  to high summer.
   In my garden the plants and blossoms are burgeoning  announcing the end of winter; the roses are in leaf of rich red, above all, the citrus trees are in bud and blossom. The bees have taken notice of this scented citrus blossoming, and I see them hurrying, shuffling, and rushing into the hive with lovely white, yellow, and buttery rich yellow pollens sacks on their hind legs. All of their pollen gathering is proof that the Mother-queen bee is laying eggs and that the workers are feeding pupae that will grow into new workers; they bring in such large quantities of pollen that I see the remnants of it dusted like gold flecks on the landing board of the hive. And, as I place my ear right up to the wall of the hive box, I hear a marvelous gentle roar of the living Force that is called the Spirit of March.
   This powerful roar makes me think of another creative roar, that of the wonderful roar of my pottery kiln that is also in my garden. If at all possible, a living, growing garden should have a beehive for honey or a kiln for the firing of ceramics--pots and sculptures. I cannot conceive of it being any other way. The two are so merged in my psyche, that when I think of one I feel the other. I remember the Cardews who had a magnificent kiln and rich red roses growing up the wall of their county home in Saint Breward, Cornwall

   The heart is both a beehive and a kiln. I do not add the word "like" because they are so very similar. Through great living heat or passion (one of the Force of nature, the other of man instigated flame-fire) magical transformation take place through heat and energy. The focus of heat and intentionality causes transformation to occur. A natural law of the Cosmos.
   Within a shield or containment barrier, (a refractory of firebrick in one case, or, the wooden walls of a beehive) the heart roars with life. There is a pulse of the fire as the kiln begins  its moment to moment climb to the required heat (to cone) to vitrify clay and melt glazes. My pots fire to about cone 5 to cone 7, requiring about eight hours of heat-work.
    The same is true of the heart pulse of blood as it flows on its course nourishing the life of the body and it organs; the energy which is not burnt" thoroughly is deposited on the heart just as in the kiln's unburnt energy (or carbon) deposits itsel as  black splotchings called "flashings" on the walls of pots. On the pots the flashings are quite beautiful, perhaps not so much so on the heart, for obvious reasons that anyone can understand.
   The very first time that I fired my kiln many years ago, I felt an excitement rising up in my chest and heart--a correspondence with the rising fire of the kiln. It was a marvelous simulacrum of my body corresponding to the soul of the rising flame and heat. After many years and numerous kiln firings I still feel the excitement at the surge of the heightening heat.
   The firing begins with a fluttering orange-yellow flame called a  "candling" to drive off water in the clay body. Then, the flame is gradually increased  until it takes on a blue, almost clear resonance. With this stage the kiln atmosphere is clear and hot (free of unburnt carbon) and  breathes so powerfully and  its  sound is a sweet susurration that purrs, or more aptly, buzzes like the core of bees working around the Mother in a hive. The kiln works its magic of permanence on the pots and the beauty of the glazes. Both the kiln and the hive have alchemically created out of earth, air, water and fire eternal forms and healing honey.
 
 
                                                       The Perfume of Poison
                                                                     By
                                                        Frank La Rosa Mazza

   The poison of a bee's stinger has the most intense, beautiful fragrance in the plant or animal world.
Only the alchemy of the bee's body and soul can create this magical scent. It is actually a scent that is expressed by the death of the bee. This fragrance is released when the bee stings and its entrails and stinger are torn from its body, thus killing it. The fragrance of this wounding is transitory, fugitive, pealing on the air for only a few seconds if that. It is a sweetness and pungency and colors of flower petals, stamens, pollen, and nectaries. The perfume of this sacrificial death is like Rilke's crystal bowl that rings as it is shattered.
   I wonder how many people (even beekeepers) have experienced or acknowledged this lovely, precious perfume? It is as a Wallace Stevens suggested--death is the mother of beauty. There resides in all this a poignancy the possibility  that we as human beings perceive something about which the bees seemingly know nothing (I wonder), I suppose.













                   

February the Get Ready Month

We are in the midst of February, the cleansing month,  and the roses should have been pruned by now.  It is not too late to do so, but that little chore should be done now. I Pruned about fifty roses at the Shiley Pavilion in La Jolla and they are already leafing out because they are so close to the profoundly beautiful Pacific Ocean within view. Now is also the time to feed them with a very light application of nitrogen, either chemical ammonium sulphate or steer manure. Water it in well. Then a little later in the season (about a month or so), give them an application of Baer Three in One Rose Care; this fertilizes, protects from fungi, and kills insects. This is a systemic product and does a good job of helping the roses along for the blooming season. You only have to apply it about twice per season,
   And, of course, as the roses bloom don,t forget to dead head the old and ragged blossoms; this saves plant energy that needs to go to the rose bush itself. Cut the blossoms off about 7 or 8 leaves down the stem, or where you think is best for the plant to put out new growth, or to where the bush looks balanced. In providing this care you are the best gardener to assess where the balance--new growth or aesthetic appeal should be. For me, gardening is always about good plant care and how beautifully pleasing the plants and garden look. These elements are what gardening is concerned with.
   Going back to the beginning of all this, February is the cleansing or purification month. February is the second month of the Gregorian calender, and the word February derives from the Latin 'februa' which means expiatory offerings, cleansing, or by  extension,  a kind of fever that heats up and makes for cleansing by some sort of excitement. In my conception of the word, February is that month latent with plant energy that is on the brink of Spring. It is Nature's ready to go month.

27 October 2014                       A GARDEN MEDITATION

                                                   Whistling to the Birds

These days I am whistling to the birds. First, in the early morning the mockingbirds wake me up with their melodious, sweet assertions. They implore the air, and me, to attend to the day.
   After I have had breakfast, I walk out into my garden--a paradise of cool, sweet air--a resurrecting experience much like waking up from sleep without the conscious, nagging mind. I then feed them, casting about their seeds under the rose bushes.  I do this every morning because they are my constituents and will always vote for me, especially the black headed grosbeaks (senior members) who are the sure sign that all is well.
   The mockingbirds perch way up on the whippy, swaying tips of the timber bamboo and sing out their territorial challenges. I, of course, whistle back to them. They wait a long moment eye me, process what they have heard, and whistle back songs from their repertoire; and,  at the end of their birdy litany,  they call out that which I have whistled to them. My son and daughter affirm that there is a communication going on for sure. However, they say that it is probably unknown what I have said, that which  is whistled. But, that is not the point. I conclude that my whistling creates a mysterious  communion of sorts, a connection with the minds and spirits of the mockingbirds.
   Mockingbirds imitate cell phones and Caltrans whistles, so what communication is there? A bird with a machine? Come on-no way!
   Nevertheless, the mockingbirds seem to enjoy my garden; a genuine part of its ambiance is this whistling on my part and their response. An antiphon involving living creatures.
   I suppose that for eons people have whistled to the birds--hunters certainly have--and the curious birds have appeared. Now, people don't whistle as much as they once did, and besides what would shutdown, disaffected neighbors say. As a matter of fact, I cannot remember the last time time I heard a person whistle. Maybe people lose it with age or the loss of imagination and joy. I whistled a lot as a boy.
   Well, as far as I am concerned, my proper neighbors here in rights-ville, middle class suburbia don't have much fun, let alone real joy. Neither are they appreciative of the scents of morning flowers, of the dew that caresses the grass and other plants, and of the calls of the birds. They don't even know the names of the birds that visit their "lands".
   True, I don't know what I am whistling or saying to the birds. I simply like to do it. But, I do know that I feel their presences in  ways that some people never feel the core of others in simple, human conservation. So, I suppose you could say that I am having a conversation, I am talking with them, the way dogs bark in the late twilight before going to sleep.
   This is the main point; to be open to the Being of others, even to the Being of plants and birds.
   Isn't that what Francis of Assisi  experienced when the birds trusted him, coming to him and perching on his shoulders and hands when he spoke to them with affection and joy? He touched their Being.
 


                                       

Write a Letter--use pen, ink and paper---- 25th March 2014

To receive a handwritten letter is a beautiful event, and to write a letter to a friend, a relative, or a loved one is an act of gracious recognition and respect, especially if one writes on good paper with pen and ink.
   I am reminded of Alexander (Sasha) Barantschik, the the concertmaster of the San Francisco Sympnony,  and of his words. My bassist son Charles tells me that Sasha says  a document is worthless if it isn't handwritten on paper with pen and ink. This is irrevocably true even though the nouveaux of the present electronic world tell you otherwise. Emails have their place, but they are never a substitute for a real letter. Emails are the junk food of our non-caring, egocentric, disaffected times. At best they are utilitarian and fast, at the worst cold.
   Can you imagine Obama or Putin doing a signing on an email, for the affordable care act, or,  for the annexation of Crimea? How many times have you seen these two leaders on TV signing those documents, and with expensive pens? And what about signing a marriage document? The Mexicans sign it on the altar! Think of how many times you had to sign for your house mortgage, and with a pen. I still have mine.
   Like Charles Krauthammer, I remember, when I was seventeen, the letters from my girfriends written in a sweet feminine hand, on pastel paper, containing some real or imagined subtle scent of their beings. Nothing of the electronic age can come even close to that.
   I received , the other day, a letter from my daughter who is studying art in Adis Abiba, Ethiopa. She enclosed a single leaf of an indigenous Ethiopian tree--dryed, brown, and flattened out--yet when I smelled it there was a fleeting, ephemeral scent of Africa! Volumes were spoken to me by this leaf, and it opened a new botanical world for me. It sent me to my botanical reference works.
   The tree, Kosso in Amharic, Hagenia abyssinica or African redwood, grows throughout most of Africa, even down to Congo.
   Oh, and I must add, that Marianna wrote her letter to me from Adis Abiba in ink, and before the ink dryed she had inadvertently touched a word and left her partially smudged fingerprint on the paper. I have seen similar fingerprints several times on thousands of years old  ancient pottery and on some  paintings too. Is there a similarity between finger prints and the written word. Take a look at the whorls on your finger tips; they look like writing. Did writing evolve from finger marks and finger prints? Then, there is the parable of Jesus writing in the sand with his finger. Fingers create the identifying signiture, and the California DMV certainly thinks so as well.
   Many years ago, my father sent me a tiny sprig of Spanish moss in a letter;  that sprig has grown thirty years later now into a thriving drapery beneath my trees in a corridor of grey-green ambiance,  reminding me daily of my father and his great love of plants. One cannot send seeds, plantlets, or cuttings by email.
   May I be so brash in an inqusitive avuncular manner to ask how many people will "peg off" having never written or received a real letter? And, do not forget that letters are more permanent than emails. Real letters are of material substance. There are in the Amherst, Massachusetts library precious tiny bits and pieces of envelopes written on by Emily Dickinson. They are called "The Gorgeous Nothings" (Dickinson's own name for them) and have now been collected in a book by that same mysterious name, edited by Christine Burgin and published by New Directions.  To see them and read the snippits of poetry on them gives an uncanny view of her presnce. I wonder what it would be like to touch them? Among these "nothings" is a tiny pencil stub she once sent to a friend who was tardy in writing to her. How witty.
   Emails are ephemeral, fugacious. Where do they exist? Out there in abstract space somewhere? Letters are the blooded-cryptic-code of real human beings. I love to see the ink (green, blue, black, or brown) from a pen nib flow quiveringly down onto paper with my own intentionality to be sent to another human being.  We say, "I don't have time for that. Please tell me,what do we have time for?"




  

Redirecting the Energy Force of Roses

Well,  as I walk around the neighborhood viewing the frontyard gardens, I observe that almost all the gardeners have pruned their roses. One or two intransigent gardeners have not pruned their roses at this late date of 28th January, but that really doesn't matter. Most roses, except hybrid teas, will do well with little or no pruning. Of course most people in the suburbs adore  hybrid teas--good and showy in the front yard.  And, they feel so horticulturally correct.
   I suppose there are only two reasons for pruning roses in late winter (such as it is here in Southern Calafia). The temperature in my garden dipped to only forty-seven degrees F this winter. It's warmer and drier here than it was forty years ago and the pinch is on. If we want to continue gardening, we will have to change our watering habits or move.
   First, roses need pruning back (severely or minimally) to redirect the plant's energy or elan into new growth that will in turn produce a healthier rosebush and better blossoms. Trees and plants in the wild get trimmed regularly by wind, ice, some animals, and their own self limiting growth.  A healthy, compact  tea has a good reserve of energy, but if left unpruned, teas become a bit spindly, unkempt and weak. The  yellowish,leaves hang on forever, looking dissolute and weary here in Califia, thus weaking the entire plant.  The energy has not been redirected back into the plant base and the roots. So, pruning will create stronger force for the production of future blossoms. Shakespeare says in "Richard II" that Richard would have been a real king if he hadn't been so narsissistic and pseudo poetic and had taken a pruning hook to his garden, his realm. His realm was rank with sycophantes and he lived in the world of his own self centered ideals. So, unfortunaely he learned the hard way; he was violently deposed and lost what he thought was "his" realm.
   Cut the roses back to about fourteen inches, or even lower if that feels good. Cut the cane at a slant  just above a bud that  points in the direction that you want the new stem or cane to grow. The slant allow moisture to drip off. Cut down old canes to the base of the bush. I usually remove two or three of these every year. The big thick canes get old and weak, and new shoots from the base need to form new  ones.
 It's that simple. Why "cane" I do not know--they don't look like canes to me except in standard rose buhes--the bushes that grow at the top of a three or four trunk-like cane. Must be some esoteric rosarian jargon word. And, I never use a sealenton the cuts, and neither do many of myexperience and worthy mentors. It is good also to to cut above directional buds so that they point outward from the center of the plant. This will create a rose bush that looks like an open "lovely" vase as the English rosers are want to say. This vase form looks good for some special reasons. More practically, the the rose bush is opened up letting in sun and air. Make the bush an orant form with outstretching arms to embrace the Cosmos. I think the English and the French might be the best growers of roses, both amatuer and professional. Some gardener says that the English roses are among the very best, and I agree. And do not forget that "Peace" ("Mme. Antoine Meilland") is a French rose. And just think of Miss Jane Marple musing in her cottage garden when you think of English rosarians.
   Roses other than the ubiquitous flashy  teas need little pruning. I cut out dead wood, spindly stems, and weak branches, and I use my feeling sense to help create a satisfactory looking rosebush form, as opposed to a shape. Feeling sense is the hardest thing for me communicate to some people.  A "shape" reminds me of  that Victorian thing or mold made with colored jello to be set on the table as a center piece to be "ooed" and "aahed" over before it gets too slimy and melts.
   Second, roses need the pruning ritual because it cleans out dead branches, recreates the form and makes the rose beds look good in anticipation of the vegetative leaf buds yearning to push out the new year's growth. Roses also "need" (I suppose they expect it) the pruning ritual because people like to do it as a symbolic turning point for the new year. Actually, rose can be pruned at any time of the year, if necessary. The pruning can also become cause for a social get together. I get invited to at least one such ritual every January. Why, I do not know as I never attend, even though I love my roser friends.
   Now,  about water. We have received less than three inches of rain this last year and that is a serious matter! We will not be able to sustain roses if we don't get more rain. I don't know if this is temporary or long range. The water rates are going  up, and as we all know, and the potter Michael Cardew says, "roses like artists are rich feeders."  So, I shall write this in regard to what we would normally do if we had plenty of water.
   After you prune the roses, you can spray them with a dormant spray, if you wish, to kill vermin and fungi. Then, apply a good organic fertilizer such as "Dr. Earth". I have found that the organic fertilizer with myccorhiza fungi (good fungi that help direct nutients to the rootlets)  are the very best for healthy plant growth and blossoms. Organic fertilizers rejuvenate the soil and energize the plants into a mellow, steady growth, and they last longer than that hot-flash chemical stuff.  No "hot shots" as with chemical fertilizers that are immediate and short lived! Use the organics now at half strength, and then apply it every six weeks thereafter, working the granules into the soil well and soaking them in. I really enjoy this earthy, dirt driven fun down on my knees. You will see a wonderful development of the leafage and blossoms. The tone of bushes simply becomes stronger and more vibrant. The leaves and petals  have a depth that I can't quite describe.
   Roses are the archetypal garden plant, the flower of spring and love, the scent of beautiful feelings. How could one have an evil thought when smelling that lovely rose scent? I hope I will always live in a clime where I can grow roses--as a boy growing up in North Miami, roses never lasted more tha a season, two at the most. The burned out because they had no rest.
    Emily Dickinson wrote that every blossom is a resurrection, and I feel that she might have had the rose in mind.