Guerrilla

One last illicit addition from a recent walk. I picked a few prickly pears off of cacti in the city landscaping, slipped them into my pockets (prickles and all—ouch), and brought them home to bury. I might have a problem. Time was, I vaguely enjoyed people’s flowers and xeriscaping. Now everywhere I look on our morning walks I’m hungrily inspecting what’s in bloom, what’s going to seed, what’s ripe for the taking at each yard’s edge. 

All this theft of cuttings and seeds might be considered a form of guerrilla gardening—maybe in reverse? Instead of descending upon neglected patches of land and revitalizing them with unauthorized plantings, which is the mission of the original guerrilla gardeners, I’m taking up neglected bits of potential plant life and giving them a home. 

Criminal

Okay, I did it again: I’m a thief. This time I swiped some seed pods off a neighbor’s yucca. They were overhanging the sidewalk on the tips of the plant’s long stalks, and just about to burst and scatter their contents onto the concrete. So really I’ve rescued them, right? Instead of getting stepped on and swept off the curb, now they’re raked into the dirt along my yard’s southern fence, where—if my dog doesn’t dig them up, a very real possibility—I’m looking forward to yet another member in the growing community out there. Or, the community that’s growing out there. Take your pick. 

View fullsize

Confession

I have a confession. I’ve stolen from my neighbors. 

Wisteria in all its glory in a neighbor’s yard.

Over the last week or two the whole neighborhood has suddenly become flush with fragrant wisteria blossoms. Block by block, the dog and I pass them in countless forms, from well-groomed trellises braided with vines to unkempt bushes so loaded down with their pendant flowers that they look like overflowing baskets. 

Their color pops delicately against a landscape of desert browns and greens. Their scent is sweet and wafts thickly down the street. It’s not just me: each patch I’ve seen has been abuzz with drunken bees. 

A bit of random chain link out back; future home of some climbing wisteria?

The desire was sudden and visceral: I wanted some of this wisteria in my garden. So I did a bit of research and found that fresh cuttings will take root when replanted. I suppose I could've knocked on someone's door to ask their permission, but instead yesterday morning I got impulsive. A thick tangle of branches was overhanging the sidewalk. A moment later, with a twist and snap, it was down a twig. Who would ever notice? 

But I’ll notice if this cutting grows into a whole new wisteria patch. And there just happen to be a couple panels of chain link behind the garage that must once have fenced off the driveway, but now stand alone, serving no apparent purpose. Why not make a trellis of them?

Why not indeed? When I got home from the walk I promptly watered the stolen cutting into the dirt at its base. If all goes well, that baby wisteria will put down roots and start climbing—another plant to nurture in the months ahead. 

Nurture

Of course, it’s not all waiting from here on out. Nature has the ultimate say in what will happen over the course of the growing season—the character of the seeds, the immutable soil texture, the temperature’s rises and falls, the sun and wind and rain. But that doesn’t mean I can’t contribute to the conversation with irrigation, soil amendment, trellising, pruning, weeding. In their mission to grow, capture solar energy in sugars, develop fibers and fruits, and go to seed all over again, these crops won’t be on their own out there. Nurture: that’s what makes this agriculture rather than wilderness. 

Nature

Yes, seeds “want” to grow. It’s in their nature. Plus, as I learned at Native Seeds/SEARCH a couple weeks ago, domestic crop varieties tend to germinate more easily than wild plants: over millennia of seed-saving, humans across the globe have selected for local landraces with desirable traits, including ease of starting seedlings.

Nothing’s popped up for me over the last few days, though. Still watering and waiting...

Waiting

“What if I planted too soon? Or too late? What if we get another cold snap? What if it’s already too warm because of climate change? Some of these guys are supposed to like the desert, but others might not so much, and the sun gets so hot, what if they just bake out there? How do I know if I’m watering them the right amount? What if they never germinate because they’re too dry, or I just drown them first thing before they stand a chance? What if I didn’t do enough to amend the soil and they starve and wither up? What if I doomed the seeds?”

My partner tipped his head thoughtfully. “The seeds want to grow, don’t they?”

I bit my lip. 

“They want to live. Whatever the conditions, they’ll do everything they can to make it. I think they’ll be fine. You’ll just have to wait.”

So I’m watching that dead-seeming dirt where my seeds are now hidden, and waiting. 

Watering

Slow, frequent waterings when the sun is low: this is the way to go. There’s no point losing moisture to evaporation caused by wind or midday heat. The goal is for every drop of precious water to soak deep into the ground, so that new roots will pursue it just as deeply and thus form a stronger, more drought-hardy base than shallow root systems offer. 

Still, every now and then it’s nice to tip the nozzle up into the sunlight and admire the wisp of rainbow you’ve conjured. 

Turning

The passing of Albuquerque’s final frost risk of the spring this week (fingers crossed) marked a turning point out in the garden: planting season.

It was also a turning point for my pet worms. They’ve been living in a cozy indoor bin of leaves, coffee grounds, and vegetable scraps for a couple months now, and seem quite happy there churning out a rich natural fertilizer. But it’s time for half the herd to brave the great outdoors.

After turning the backyard compost heap to ensure it was properly aerated and evenly damp, I transferred some of my red wigglers into the mix. My hope is they’ll accelerate the ongoing breakdown of yard wastes into usable soil amendment for the coming summer, while freeing up room in the smaller vermiculture bin for the overall worm population to keep growing. (I’m told the population reproduces to fill the space it’s in and stops when it’s at its limit, so ideally both the indoor and outdoor populations will now be free to get busy and make babies.)

Good luck, little guys! And please don’t die off out there under your new and more rugged conditions. I’d feel like a terrible worm mom. 

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

Planting

The grand reveal: my garden! Does it look barren and dull, especially under all that cloud cover? Don’t be deceived by appearances. As of this past week’s planting, a whole world of seeds is scattered atop that ground and tucked just beneath its surface: tiny grains of amaranth, flecks of sunflower, pebbly kernels of corn.

I hope the mild soil temperatures and sunlight will inspire life to unfold from dormancy. As I write this, each seed coat may be peeling or melting back, letting moisture kiss the living embryo within to wake it from its sleep. Tiny, cramped radicals will loosen their clench and start curling outward into the world, feeling for ups and downs. Threads of newly-green shoot will reach instinctively skyward. 

I hope. But their fate is no longer in my hands. I’ll mist them every morning before the sun climbs over the rooftops and amend the soil further where I can, but from here on out their growth is up to nature more than nurture. 

Planning

I’ve been thinking on large scales lately: the rise of industrial agribusiness over the last century or so, the intractable complexities of today’s unsustainable food systems, the question of humanity’s ability to feed itself in the long run as both soils and fossil fuel reserves are depleted. 

It can be overwhelming. 

So here’s a breath of fresh air—my small desk and the breeze from the open window it faces. My piece of our great multiplicity.

It’s early April and just about planting season, which means, first, planning season. When and where and how will I sow each of the seeds I’ve collected in the freshly-dug and fenced-off garden plot out back? Based on what I’ve learned researching each plant’s needs and observing the space’s soil, light, and moisture patterns, I’ve been sketching a layout and setting up a timetable for the weeks ahead.