Garden Muses are as unique as the garden itself

My sister in law's garden was inspired through a different channel.  

Note the common milkweed that towers over the gnome.  


Even though her vegetable rows are straight and weed free, she spared this prairie native guest because she wanted the monarchs to feel welcome.

This Heron is my Muse

David bought me this heron as a gift during the spring of 2009.  A gift that sits weathered in the center of my garden among the lichen-covered stones and cracked birdbath. 


2009. A turning point in my life and in my garden.  


With the heron as my muse, I seed curves of bull's blood beets and rhubarb red swiss chard.  Arugula and chamomile rest in drifts along the field stone steppers anchored into the sandy loam.  Although I still pull out the quackgrass that invades the perimeter, I leave the milkweed and bergamot that have crept in.  I've relaxed my rules a bit.


My dad doesn't understand my garden design.  He taught me to lay out straight lines to create straight rows.  "Makes the tilling easier", he said.


"It does make sense", I say to myself.  But I'm still seeding curves instead of rows this year because I like how it looks.  My garden, with the exception of my metal muse, is living, breathing art.  Art that produces a bunch of chocolate mint tea, potatoes and gigantic sunflowers when all is said and done.


I love the planting and weeding and wandering through almost more than the harvesting.  It gives me a chance to keep tabs on the phoebe family under the deck.


My garden. 


This spring I finally have time to write about it.

I'm star struck by what seems like perfection in the natural world.
The way the feathers lay smooth on a sandhill crane.
Primaries, secondaries, tertials. Feathers that work together for the purpose of dance, lift-off and flight.  A wing that took eons to create.


As a land planner, one of my motives is the creation and protection of native habitat for birds.  Although I strive to replicate what I see in nature, it's tough to mimic what took millions of years to create. I do the best that I can.


Maybe that's why I'm drawn to origami?  I can meditatively fold a square piece of paper into a crane in five minutes or less.  Not as beautiful as the original, but a beautiful symbol of the real deal.