OCTOBER INSOUCIANCE

                                                              To Autumn
                                       Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness
                                            Close-bosom friend of the maturing sun;
                                        Conspiring with him how to load and bless
                                             With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eve run. . . .
                                                                    John Keats, 1819

This October, the figs of various varieties are ripening: "Tiger Panache" like yellow and green stripped minarets; "Green Genoa" of opulent form; "The Grande Ilse" of my wife's ancestors' fig tree from Louisiana and Mississippi. Yet, as these figs come our way, the leaves of the trees that bear them are yellowing, falling one by one to the ground around their trunks bringing a promise of earthy decompostion and renewal. I think that the fallen layered leaves are as sensuous to my eyes as are the figs to my tongue and palate. Both have a delicious scent of Autumn.

 

   October is our 10th month according to the Gregorian calendar, but it was the 8th month for the ancient Romans, and it still is for me. The Romans tried to rename it after emperors and prominent families, but none of the names ever stuck. Perhaps this is because October as 8th month carries with it the potentia of the number 8, the symbol of the Lemniscus which is a figure eight of pointed or connected circles touching each other. A lemniscus is defined as a bundle bands or fibers located in the brain. It is composed of a fascia, bands. Leminiscate forms are ribbon-like bands that look exactly like a rubber band that is twisted once in the middle. It is the symbol for infinity. Once one gets the image in the mind, in the imagination, it pops up all over the place and is seen everywhere. I see it all the time in vines, clouds, streams, and especially in
snakes.

. 

   It is thought that the Lemniscus derived from a very ancient symbol-form known as the Ouroboros; the Lemniscus is a kind of double Ouroboros.  The etymology of Ouroboros is that "uro" means tail, and "ors" or "os' means mouth, (both from Greek); that is, a tail devourer. So, an Ouroboros is that wonderful ring image of the serpent devouring it own tail. Metaphorically, the serpent devours itself so that it can be reborn. I always encounter shed snake skins on my walks, and I say, "that snake has been reborn, it has a new skin, a new life". We do exactly the same thing when we cast off old mental-emotional chains. Like the Lemniscus, the Ouroboros is an image of spontaneous, continuous flow, one curve flowing with energy into another, and that is October; one time or season flowing into another season. October brings fruits, figs, and the falling of leaves to enrich the earth for the next season's "mellow fruitfulness."

   But the Lemniscus with its two connected, touching circles has a more profound meaning. The two circles are the two worlds--this one and the Spirit world. They meet up or touch each other at All Saints' Eve and at All Souls' Eve. The point at which the two orbs touch is magical! You know, it's that time of year when there is other worldly magic in the red, oranges, and yellows of fallen leaves, and there is that moist, earthy evening smell of dew kissed fallen leaves and sheaves of straw, all with more than a hint of cold, even with perhaps a whiting of frost. All Hallows Eve, is my favorite time of year partly because it conjours up polarities of orange sunsets and frosty nights.
   Halloween in its non-commercialized version is All Saints' Eve which falls on the night of October 31rst, and All Saints' Day is November 1rst, one of the ten days of Holy Obligation in the Church. All Souls' Day is November 2nd and is called the Day of the Dead. It is the day for honoring the recently dead and all the dead, and prayers are offered so that their Souls may reach heaven. It is also a day to remember them--they should not be forgotten.
    All Hallow's Eve or Halloween incorporated many traditions from pagan (paganus simply means farmer, as in paesano) harvest festivals and of those honoring the dead. People believed, and still do, that it was a time when the material and supernatural worlds are closest and magical things would happen. The Lemniscus again. They believed that a Faery Host of the Souls of the dead was flying through the sky. People dressed up in frightening costumes to scare off the evil spirits. and the lit huge bonfires as well. I always associate Halloween with smells of burning leaves, flames, smoke and flickering figures and shadows. Modern popular society thinks of Halloween in terms of  a holiday of horror and of the sales accrued from "halloween stuff'" sold in stores.
    In reality, Halloween resides deeply seated as an archetype in the human psyche because the seasons are still with us! They have not left us. I don't think they can package a piece of the sky and put a price tag on it.
   These special seasonal days have a tight grip on many people and rightly so; people love the magical, the mysterious jutaposition of the two worlds in Autumn, and even though they are unaware of the traditional antecedents,  the mystique still exists. And, I assure you, not to worry--there will not be a quiz on the scholarly antecedents and traditions. I no longer do that sort of thing.
   So, my garden proceeds into a mild and gentle stasis. Plants need to be watered properly during this extremely dry time before the rains come, but only enough to keep the roots alive. It is also a time of cleaning up, pruning, opening up the trees so that the winter rains and winds (when they come) can breathe freely through the branches. I watch and enjoy this gentle October seasonal mood. I become an observant dawdler, a flaneur. October--a delectable time of Insouciance.
                                                                                                             

SEPTEMBER--THE MONTH THAT DIVIDES

". . .we earn the right to enter into the spring season of growth only if we can also enter into the time when summer wans and autumn draws on: the season of sinking down and dying that comes with winter."   From the book "The Archangel Michael"  by Rudolph Steiner.

                                                              A September Essay
                                                                  
September is the turning point month that divides summer from fall.  The astrological change occurs with the Autumnal Equinox beginning with September 23rd or so. Right now, even well before the 23rd, the days are hotter in the afternoons because the sun's angle is more oblique, and the evenings and nights are cooler by contrast. The hues and tones of the late afternoon light are already of a definite orange, yellow cast.
   September is the 9th month of the Gregorian calendar, but it is the 7th month of the Roman calendar, and is named "September"  after the Latin for seven, 'septem'. I wonder if the similar sounding word 'septum' from Latin saeptum, a thin dividing membrane that is a partition as in the nose and other tissues would provide a better etymology? With its Autumnal Equinox, isn't September the month of the balance sign of Libra, and the balance that Saint Michael carries at his belt? Why not? This etymology (septem and saeptum) is more fun, and being linguistically correct isn't everything, even though the word September does derive from the Latin seven, 'septem'.
   The heat loving plants of my garden have absorbed all of the sun's energy that they need in order to bloom before the the heat subsides. Gardenia japonica is is full bloom now, scenting the air with inimitable ambiant fragrance. Gardenia japonica var. "Augusta" blooms and grows stronger if it is grafted on Gardenia thunberbgia stock. When "Augusta" grows on its own roots it doesn't flourish. I have made it a point to get some Gardenia thunbergias; I grafted a G. japonica on one, and I have allowed the other plant to grow freely. So, my Gardenia thunbergia is a very large shrub now and in a few more years it will be be a small tree. If you want to see a good specimen of G. thunbergia, visit  Walter Andersen's Nursery in Point Loma. Go into the back yard by the fish ponds against the left wall, and there it grows as it has for many years. It is the only one that I know of in this area.
    My G. thunbergia produces three inch, nine-petalled flowers of the most delicate scent. The morning scent lasts until the sun gets hot, and the flowers last only one day, and there is a definite dividing line for their lives, and they don't even know it.  Why cannot the gardenia  perfumes ever replicate the exact scent of the actual flowers? Easy--they are chemical concoctions, imitations. They are like embalmed scents, beautiful as they are, but nevetheless artificial. It is for the same reason that sopranos such as the great Beverly Sills, who has beautiful overtones to her voice, never sounds the same on disk as she did in an actual concert setting. So, grasp the flower, (and the voice) and its scent before the balance shifts and it is gone.
   The music of my night garden tells me that a great seasonal change is about to happen. I hear the musical chirping of the crickets--they are exuberant in their singing. Moreover they are antiphonal. I hear one singing close by my window, and then I hear another one (sometimes others) singing at a distance. The two pulses of sound start off as separate sounds, but then they gradually synchronize or merge, finally becoming one sound of a chordal nature, and then they gradually separate or divide again into two sounds; the one chirping near and the other chirping far away. This phenomenon, that I first discovered for myself, is what Gaston Bachelard talks about in "L'intuition de l'instant". He says that all Nature is a constant flowing of "inward and outward", "back and forth", "far and near," of  "retreat and expansion" and of a spiral, vortex quality at that. Lucio Alberto Pinheiro dos Santos, a Brazilian philospher, (1889-1950) says the same thing in slightly different words. And Henri Lefebfre says that the so-called noises of the world are not noises at all. All the murmurs (reumers) have meaning, and he implores us not to forget to listen to the Silences between the notes: isn't that really what music is? These Silences are what I listen to or for as they happen between the far and near,  among the alternate and simultaneous singing of the crickets. What beautiful, varied silences they are, and they soothe my Spirit as I lay in my bed. The Silences, like the negative spaces in sculptures, are lovely and mysterious.
   My own living experiences, the explanations of Bachelard,  Lucio Pinheiros, and Henri Lefebre give credence (from perhaps more intellectual statements than mine)  to the September sounds of Silence in my own little garden, and in all of Nature. And, the cricket chirps change! As the season cools down to early winter, when ther are fewer flowers, the crickets' singing  notes will assume descending cadence becoming slower as well. And finally, they will, one night, cease. As W. H. Auden says in his poem about gardens, "Their Lonely Betters", all of Nature thrives without knowing that it is dying; this insight is only reserved for the existence of "Their Lonely Betters", we self conscious, self aggrandizing humans. But we can be like the flowers and the crickets if we dwell entirely in the experiential moment, sans talking or naming.
   The sun enters Libra on the very moment of the Autumnal Equinox, The Scales, and that is another
energy laden change. The Earth and its creatures, plant and animal, have received the sun's powerful energy. They have taken in all they can accomodate. So now it is time for the earth to slow down. Now the Earth needs for the plants to give back, to return the nourishment--what has been taken will now be given back, and that is the deep significance of the scales that Saint Michael the archangel always carries at his belt. His feast day Michaelmas is celebrated on September 29. The season has changed; energies will balance out. The sign Libra is named 'bilancio' in Italian, so symbolic of Michael and the turning season.
   Michael is the leader of the angels, and he serves and defends all of those who are in dire distress. He is sometimes shown in paintings and sculptures brandishing his sword, vanquishing the demon, and carrying the scales at his belt. His name, Michael or Micah means "he who is like God". He is the true guardian of the limen or threshold, the doors of change, and the initiator of a new and compassionate relationship between man and the Divine.

   A depiction of Saint Michael and the demon dragon by William Blake   1757-1827. Here, Blake shows Michael binding the devil in chain as he holds a very large key in his right hand. The background is that of the ocean waters with birds flying at the left in the sky. The over all depiction is like a mandala of a vortex.

THE AUGUST MONTH

August is a curious month here in the Southern California clime near the coast. Our gardens are in what the English term late "High Summer", and so "Summer's time is finished/ diffused across a path of indifference ", as one poet puts it. It is hot and the air has a subtle rustle of dried leaves that is the harbinger of fall, a fall not yet here but certainly ambiant in the heaviness and fulness of plant being---the flowers are "too heavy with the weight of their own being." They sing queitly to themselves in the morning air. How refreshing.

   August is the eighth month of the Gregorian Calendar, named after the Roman emperor Augustus. Here in Southern California the weather is august, but dry, so we need to water if the garden is to flourish and grow and look good. A low water, low maintenance garden is suitable for our rainless clime, but if one wants to savor a beautifully green, flowering garden, one must work hard, be sensitive, and of course,  water. What's the use of having a garden that is low maintenance and sterile? The ones that I see in my suburban proper neighborhood are all so fittingly presentable and thusly, depressingly boring or 'noioso' as the Italians so aply put it. I want to walk out into the garden in the morning and observe the emergent leaves, the tiny meristematic buds of growth, and the flower scented atmosphere. If I want low maintenance, I'll go to some corporate office, glassed in entry-way-planting. I want Borodin's Oriental maidens of lovely feet stepping out into gardens of evening cool. But, like all of us, they must step carefully, watching out for poisonous serpents, rattlesnakes. It's their garden too.
   The August garden here on the coast is a Mediterranean one of "almost-goodbyes." It is only one degree away from what Giuseppe Lampedusa calls a "garden of partched scents" in his epic nostalgic novel of a lost Sicily "The Leopard". What else can I say--the poets say it so well! Such gardens of heavy roses have the scent and color of Mahler's convalescent slow movements. I experienced this one August in a public garden in Vienna. The roses floated in bloom, their petals in fully opened balls, and the air was warm and sunny of a morning as people strolled on the leaf strewn lawns and walked their dogs among blotches of warm shades, and then the very next morn the cold was there with its final chill, like a stiletto. It was finished; 'Abschied' the  farewell until spring,  as Mahler says in "Das Lied von der Erde"--"The Song of the Earth".  Such  gardens have an imploring music all their own  singing "wait one minute more before I say goodbye," and that is the essence of Mahler and of August.
   We are not quite yet at the season's 'Abschied'-farewell. We will need to wait until late October or perhaps early November for that, and then there is the promise of the Eternal Return.

Man the Forager--Plants and Wood

It is rewarding to read an outstanding book about plants and one that is so well written as is John Wright's Hedgerow, number 7 in the River Cottage series published by Bloomsbury, London and New York. This 'Hedgerow' book has fine color photographs of the plants that are edible, and has excellent writing: intelligent, knowledgeable, and informative without being stuffy. He is a true a writer, not a 'garden writer.' Wright's book demonstates a long familiarity with the plants he describes. There are plant-fruit recipes, and even a short section on poisonous plants (no recipes) so that we will not get ourselves poisoned or sent to ER, and Wright understands how crucial this information is for children; I having had five, and he three, and he dedicates the book to his three daughters.
   But most of all, I like Wright's book for its Voice.  It don't mean a thing, if it ain't got that Voice (i.e. swing), as Ella Fitzgerald sings. Voice is the heart and soul of  good writing. Otherwise one might as well read directions for assembling a bicycle.  You feel that you know Wright as a living person as you read his work. He has a vast reading background and includes allusions from English herbals which create a varied texture to his plant pages.  Best of all though is his wit and sense of humor, his subtle sarcasm that never hurts or stings, never belittles, and there are the funny, down to earth images, like how mallow soup looks like 'grass-cutting soup.' And, he dislikes herbal teas--a man after my own heart. If it ain't got that caffein, it ain't worth a thing. I think that only the English can pull off such witty sarcasm with aplomb (not a plum).  He praises various plants and fruits, but calls it honestly when he feels the stuff is insipid or over rated by know-it-alls. I only wish I could take one of his foraging outings on a clear, lovely English day.
   He emphasizes that man was first a forager. Homo forager, not homo faber. I suppose. He had to forage in order to survive. He got his food by wandering around, picking and collecting plants and fruits and learning the hard way. It is a very primitive (in the best sense of the word), simple, way of life. And, the finds are there for the taking (with permission nowadays of course). I got called a vulgar name only once (after asking permission) for collecting thrown away plants in a dumpster, and  even if you get that treatment you will be just fine.  Consider the source. I suppose early man had to keep an eye out for unpredictable, nasty animals. Anyway, foraging is so very rewarding, getting valuable things and getting them for free. Today, we checkout the cans on trash day or prowl bull dozed yards in suburbia. I have a small collection of orchids and many other plants retrieved from the "green" trash. Some of the plants and small trees are now moderately big shade trees.
   More significant to my collecting zeal, I forage for wood that I turn into carvings and sculptures that I create. That big one in the back yard was lifted as a giant log into my pickup by my kind wife and me. It is of Monterey cedar. One can find special woods that cannot ever be bought; olive, avocado, acacia, liquid ambar, orange, lemon, kumquat, macadamia, just to name a very few. The man down the street, Bob Diehl, a very accomplished wood craftsman and wood turner artist-friend finds all of his wood, and turns beautiful bowls from it. Now that the neighbors know of his talent, I and others are all always there (with ear plugs) at the wretched sound of a chain saw. He takes those savaged olive trees and "turns" them into fine formed bowls. They are exquisite.
   Another friend, Jim Gigler, has a lovely, paradisal garden barely a block away from me. It is a pleasure to see how much he truly loves and enjoys growing plants and trees. When he has to cut off a tree limb or take down a tree that just isn't doing well at all, he sends the wood over to my house via his son.  "Oh Dad, to La Rosa's place again?" I paint-seal the ends of the logs, date and name them with a tags, and I let them sit there to cure, all the while I meditate upon what mystery is in that log. Gigler also leaves plants that he doesn't want anymore out on the curb, which feeds my need for plants and satisfys my early-man,  foraging want. It's a terrific feeling to get a free plant. And, when I find damaged plants that some far less scrupulous others leave for the trash, I feel like a plant resurrector; after a while--weeks, months--or years--I feel a bit inflated that "I saved That!"
   So don't pooh-pooh it if you haven't actually experienced it, eh? Have you seen what foragers bring to The Antiques Roadshow? And some of them get it on trash day.
   Well, I only collect what I need or can use. It's like fishing. My wife keeps me in check there as well. But I must assert firmly, there is something authentic connecting me with my ancient ancestor of the deep forest that really gives me satisfaction and a thrill when I take off with a plant or a choice piece of wood. So there.

Grow-Blossom-Prune and Clip-Return to the Earth

Apropos of my last blog, I want to add some more comments on mulching. But first, I must say without being  too prissy that the word "blog" is an unfortunate one, vulgar sounding, as though connotative of some blockage for which one calls the rotorooter man.  Elemental, Eh? That said, however, without blogs, neither I nor you would be participating in this creative interchange.
   If you hear the sound of my clippers clicking off in my garden, it is a signal that I am grooming plants and shrubs and trees, and clipping up the twigs and branches into little piece that I in turn spread on the earth of the plant-island beds. I see now, in the midst of summer, that the beds are being fertilized naturally and holding water as a result of this. That which grows, blossoms and dies was nourished by water, fertilizer, and care, and why should the plant leafiage and such be dumped in the landfill?  It shoudn't! It is a Naural cycle that it be returned to the earth as the nourishing Mater that will always sprout grasses and flowers in spring, even after atomic disasters as occurred at Chernobyl and Fukushima. Have you seen the wonderful TV documentary about the vibrant (yet  still relatively radioactive) life that is returning ever more vigorously to the environs of Chernobyl?  Eight foot catfish breeding in radioactive sediment ponds and birds singing and raising young. It is a reassuring thing to see this ressurrection, and may we all hope and pray that mankind gets his act in order and that such destruction does not happen again. A lot remains to be seen in the future at these sites, but at least Nature is healing itself within the rich detritus of plant and animal life.
   Nature has a way of decomposing and regenerating itself into a fecundating substrate that helps seeds to sprout, and in the case of Chernobyl, for wolves to frolic and breed pups; a less chemical path than that of Miracle-Gro. This is the quintessential Eternal Return that I stand in awe of. It will take a very long time for all of Nature to heal at these places, and for mankind to return but in our own gardens we can mitigate the polluting dusts and gases and toxins by growing "Our Own Gardens" as Voltaire, that smiling philospher of wit, intelligence, insight and joyful irascibilty stated in the last sentences of "Candide." Both Voltaire's "Candide" and Leonard Bernstein's "Candide" are required for a possible but not probable short quizz on my next  ----.
  

The Forest Creates Mulch All Year Long

Creating and spreading mulches in our gardens is a continual all year-long process. Trees and shrubs in forests are continuously losing branches and twigs, and  shedding leaves. This process creates a mat or layer, a matrix (from the Latin for mother, 'mater,' as in alma mater) that holds in moisture, provides a substrate for germinating seeds, and decomposes into nutrients for existing plants. What will Mother N. think of next, eh? Well, the best part of it is that Mother N. doesn't think about it at all! No more than the birds do when they sing.
   In our gardens, we need first to lay down a layer of coarse mulch; twigs, rough-cut stuff, and rather short pieces of small branches. As you are pruning bushes and shrubs have a garbage can next to you into which you throw the cut up stuff which should be short, 3-4 inch pieces. Don't cut your fingers off--it is  easy to do with sharp pruners, so be sure that you know where the ER is in case of necessary stitches. Mine is only three miles away and I've never had to use it so far (for that), thank God.  After you have cut the twigs and branches into small pieces, which takes some time during which you can listen to the sweet birds, smell the flowers, and keep an eye out for rattlers (I killed one last week so please don't report me to the bleeding hearts--it was only 3 feet from an adjacent  day care center), then you can take this cut up stuff, detritus, and spread it very evenly in your plant bed and garden islands. Even, careful spreading is paramont. Next, take your grass clippings and spread those over the rough-cut stuff. Because I no longer have lawn, I get my clippings from friendly gardeners who cut my neighbor's lush, over watered lawns. It's good to chat with the gardeners and say "Ciao." As you spread these clippings, and some small leaves, this mixture will fall into the voids or interstitial spaces created by the rough-cut stuff. It will decompose and create molds and fungi which will in turn help to decompose the coarser stuff. You can even sprinkle on a bit of earth from time to time to create more bacteria.  Keep it all moist. It is suprising seeing how quickly ("quick" as in living, not dead) the coarse stuff and the finer detritus will create a lovely bed of mulch that holds in moisture, provides nutients, and smells good. Good mulch always smells good, like a forest floor. And if you have all of your fingers, the process will need to be started all over again when you have plant stuff, clipping and leaves. Several layers of this kind of mulching are needed to create a beautiful, green garden. People always ask me why my garden is so green and beautifully lush, and I say it is because the mulch that I help to create holds in the water longer than neatly raked up, hard earth upon which the water simply runs off pretty fast.
   I realize that chopping or cutting up that stuff takes time, but I feel that I would rather be outside for a couple hours than sitting indoors eating snacks, watching insipid-TV programs, or whatever. Now that I've told you about making great mulch and how cool I am, you can go into a forest somewhere and see exactly what I have described.
   The water scientists tell us that not one drop of water, like energy, is never lost. The planet has now all the water it ever had, and will ever have. So they say. I trust the mystics and poets (read Shelley's "Clouds") who have said this for many centuries. Because we are about 60% water, or thereabouts, I wonder if we humans get recycled into the watery universe of living things and water resources as do other living creatues. It is reassuring to me to think of myself as water, especially when I am contemplating the mighty Mississippi or the Sea. As Thoreau put it, fish are merely animalized water; is it that way with us?




  

Plant-Lovers All

I have watched a house remodel job for about a month or so now. All the former garden is bulldozed except for one sixty-year old (at least ) heavily-laden orange tree about fifteen feet tall. I managed to salvage some really attractive day-lilies, after asking permission of course. In about a month, if the orange tree doesn't get water, it will be either dead or beyond recovery. With August, September, October, and a little of November ahead of us, it will not make it to spring and blossom as it has for at least fifty years. Such a noble act for the powers that be to chuck all the rest of the garden and leave this token tree. Nice alliteration, eh? Being a true plant activist, or whatever, I've asked the workers several times to give it a soak from their on the premises hose, but they say "we don't know what THEY want to do with it." I keep wondering, who are THEY? And, can't you (plural) see what is happening above your heads, especially since you all sit under this tree (the only shade) while you eat your (plural) lunches? Well, if and when this tree dies, THEY can pop in another one. Only $23.95 plus tax and fifty years, at Home Depot!