[Introducing Silverbelle Ellen. Like many of of us in this state (and on the pages of Silverback Digest), she is someone with great creative energy who is making a living combining her passions and profession. In her case it’s gardening and cooking. As you can see from this newsletter, even the most generous ideas can run into unexpected snags. It’s not always easy earning a living in Vermont. SB SM]

Sweet peas. Artwork by Mary Azarian.

Hello Friends.

A few weeks before summer started in earnest, I designed a sign that read: “Welcome All Artists. Come paint, draw, and photograph in my garden.” It was a well-thought-out plan that I schemed up during the winter, planning to place it in front of the house. I’d been collecting art supplies and was excited to spend more time drawing and painting outdoors, and invite others to join me. Choosing a day dedicated to making art en plein air seemed like a good way to slow down from the routine of being a gardener and initiate a deeper, more purposeful connection to the plants.

Making art in the garden can take you beyond the ordinary. It requires noticing how the pistils and petals grow out of the center of a flower, how the leaves alternate up the stem of a Brussels sprout, and the way delicate seed pods develop on the tip of a lettuce shoot. My plan involved sharing my garden with others, too, and in my mind’s eye we would sit quietly together and simply notice. Making art, and finding beauty in the small things, sharing this time in silence. There would be no judgment.

Then the construction started. The family next door had also been plotting all winter. For them it was adding onto their house; a garage and more living space. Since the beginning of June, an endless parade of trucks arrives at 7 AM to unload heavy equipment; diesel wafts through open windows, and glass and metal shatters as it hits the dumpster. The noise is unrelenting, and how quickly my plans changed, along with my inner peace. I’ve gone through the various stages that one goes through when plans are disrupted, and loud noises fill the gentle stir of a summer’s day. The desire to make art outdoors, or to invite others to do the same, quickly vanished.

It became my yard versus their yard. We’re neighbors, yet we feel so differently about the land and the natural beauty it provides. I plant trees; they cut trees. I value outdoor living; they prefer the inner sanctum of a bigger house. It’s now mid-July, and while I have made peace with the fact that this construction is a given, I have also begun the gentle practice of not noticing. It’s a technique that is the opposite of what I hoped to begin, yet by ignoring the chaos I can continue my routine. And it’s working.

How often do we notice the things we most appreciate only when something changes in our routine? Now that I’ve taken the vow of not noticing, it is the everyday routine of the garden that is keeping me from going completely mad. Instead of wallowing in the din of the dump trucks nearby, I am burying myself in the daily tasks that once seemed onerous, the things I can control: weeding, edging, turning the compost every week. Because the noise and diesel fumes, I can’t change.

As a gardener, I have come to understand how the repetition of certain tasks and the necessity to get things done go hand in hand, and it is time well spent, giving me a sense of accomplishment at the end of it all. Even though there may be little to show for my efforts at the end of the summer, no lovely art prints or sketches, it’s through this web of a thousand commonplace acts that progress is being made.

I am noticing that the garden is the only place where I can count on to stay the same, even though it is changing every day. There is constancy, enriched by moments of wonder, and the stability of sameness that gives me a sense of sanctuary. I revel in the repetition of each day, of what can appear to be a viscous circle of endless small tasks, yet it is never boring or meaningless. And there are always the flowers, the way they offer inspiration to make art, both indoors and out. The small bouquets that I bring indoors as a reminder of what truly matters.

The rewards come at the end of the day, when all is quiet. I can once again hear the gentle evening sounds and be dazzled by lightning bugs. Last week, a gray fox sauntered confidently through a small opening of the woods. We looked at each other, perhaps in recognition that we both have been slightly shattered by the endless commotion of earth-moving machines, and at the end of the day, we find solace in the stillness of the night sky.

From my garden to yours,

Ellen Ecker Ogden

If you are a new subscriber, thank you! I’m Ellen Ecker Ogden, author of The Complete Kitchen Garden and The New Heirloom Garden, with designs and recipes for cooks who garden. In this column I share ways to find beauty and artful elements for your kitchen garden design, helping you connect with the food you grow and your landscape. Follow my Vermont garden on Instagram.

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