Friday, February 29, 2008

Microclimates of the Self

Alrighty then – Let’s just call an end to this winter, dontcha think?  This week’s snow— theatrically fluffy though it is, and frosting our window sills as picturesquely as a Thomas Kinkade painting— has put most of us over the edge. In the mornings, when the radio announcer scrolls through the school delays and cancellations, you can hear echoing through the neighborhood the parental howl of “Nooooooo!” And even the kids pray for the school bus to come, now that the tally of make-up days is munching into their summer vacation.

I pondered this relentless winter on a recent morning drive, heading toward Chicago on the toll road.  There was just enough glare through the gray Indiana perma-cloud that I could see a striking contrast in the vegetation on the deep cuts in the hillsides.  One side of the road glowed early morning gold, the frost completely burned off, while the other side lay in deep blue shadow, still furred with the night’s ice crystals. It struck me, hard, what a difference a few feet makes, between warmth and chill – and between flourishing, or not.

Maybe because I’ve also been staving off the gray gloom of Seasonal Affective Disorder with splashy seed catalogues, I’ve been obsessing lately about this question of what makes plants – and people – thrive, and what makes us shrivel.  Sometimes the smallest changes – moving a few feet from shadow into the sun—can make all the difference. Fellow gardeners have taught me to map out the microclimates of my yard, since planting a peony a few paces one way or another can herald a June of wild fuchsia blooms or one of barren stems, leaves curled like empty palms.

As with plants, sometimes it only takes a bit of a nudge one direction or another, to make people thrive, too – a move away from a toxic friendship, for example, or toward the beneficial sunbeam of another’s personality or talents. Folks like me dream about the structure of our summer gardens, considering how best to companion-plant some peas with beans, but not with onions or gladiolas (which antagonize the legumes).  I wonder if we’re as careful, though, with our own companionship, taking note of people who leach our soil and curl our leaves – bringing out our worst tendencies to gossip or engage in cruelty or self-destruction— versus those whose proximity make us bloom.  Author Bill McKibben says we need to cultivate what he calls a “romance of limits” to focus on the health of our local surroundings, rather than fetishizing expansionism – more stuff, more MySpace friends!  The notion of cultivating a “romance of limits” for our own emotional health is just as evocative.

When I arrived in Chicago after that cold morning drive, I met a beloved college friend for a weekend of walking, dining well, and emotional catch-up. We took a break for hot tea that afternoon, and as we gathered our mittens and scarves she said cheerfully, “Well, let’s tarry forth!” I have hung onto that wonderfully malapropped phrased—half-way between “sallying forth” and “tarrying.” The idea of “tarrying forth” – of lingering while adventuring together, captures just what I long for from the best companionship, which allows us to hang close in the warmth and comfort of the familiar, and also to grow and change.

Of course, people are not plants – and a good thing, too, since we need not wait for a bird to dine and rudely deposit our seeds elsewhere, or for a gardener or benefactor breeze to carry us to a more congenial location. We can replant ourselves, and weed our own plots.  While we’re dreaming of spring, there’s plenty of cultivation to do.  And here we are – in a leap year – with the gift of an extra day.  Shake off the chill, and dig in.

Broadcast by April Lidinsky on February 29, 2008
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