Like my garden, if I don’t go dormant every now and then, I may one day grind to a halt and quit. In Botany for Gardeners, Brian Capon explains what dormancy is, and I love the definition so much, I occasionally paraphrase it for my husband, saying: “I am currently dormant. My physiological activities are now reduced to the minimal level needed for the family’s survival only.”
This doesn’t please my evergreen-minded husband. Like other plants, evergreens do slow down in winter, but they maintain some level of photosynthesis year round. In other words, my husband contends that you should never come to a stop, or you’ll probably never get started again. And in our ever-busy world, I usually follow his reasoning.
But I’m not an evergreen. And as I prepare for winter, I study Capon’s Botany and reflect.
Capon observes that while botanists don’t fully understand what happens during dormancy, they do know that plants take cues from their environment. At the proper time, they enter a “restful state.” Botanists also know that plants can measure the passage of time, recognizing when days are getting shorter, and nights longer. Plants seem to sense that it’s growing colder and that any reproductive activity that needs to get done had best occur before first frost. Before they can end their dormancy and send forth new shoots and flowers, plants require a “chilling period” that entails a certain amount of darkness. But it’s still a process that botanists don’t completely understand—and I like that.
Plants have not yet given up all their secrets, and neither have I. My own dormancy—a very private and quiet time—coincides with my garden’s winter season. While my plants and I lie dormant, botanists and others who are searching for answers can find something else to do. We are not to be bothered: We are resting. Beginning Nov. 1, there’s a “Do Not Disturb” sign on my garden gate.
I take my cues from my perennials dying back and from the sassafras turning red, orange and yellow. I make it my goal to have my garden cleaned up, covered up, mulched up and closed up by Oct. 31. By then, new bulbs should be in the ground, new shrubs or trees planted to replace the dead and or dying ones, and the garden gate shut tight. After that, both my plants and I do our secret business in the quiet of our dormancy.
I’m sure a physician could tell me what my body is doing metabolically when I spend the winter months napping by the wood stove or sitting by my favorite window, watching the day drift by. But I’m not sure anyone could explain what my spirit is doing. While my garden’s newly planted seeds nourish embryos through the still winter months, I’m nurturing new life, too—even when it appears that nothing’s happening.
I spend my time reading garden catalogs and books, and I study the bones of my garden, made visible by winter. I make copious notes about what worked that year and what didn’t. My garden journal is as much the story of my life as any autobiography would be. I take stock, I dream, and I get inspired—not by the activity of gardening, but by the quiet of dormancy, of rest. I can never say how long I must be dormant; I can only say I’ll know when it’s time to get active again. It’s an organic process not to be tampered with. If anything’s going to happen come spring, my plants and I both require this mysterious, silent time.
And then, just as my crocuses will pop up in February when one least expects them to, so do I.
In my visions, my garden outstrips both the budget and our property 2-to-1. My husband reminds me that Martha Stewart doesn’t do it all herself: She hires gardeners. But in our garden, if weeds are to be pulled, we’ll be pulling them. If new borders are designed, we’ll be the ones mowing around them.
“Well then, what do you think of Xeriscaping?” I counter. “More gravel, less grass?”
My husband shakes his head. He doesn’t want to rake gravel any more than he wants to mow grass. I don’t mind; the dreaming is as refreshing to my soul as a long winter’s nap. It gets creative juices flowing, even if I never do the things I dream up.
I make plant lists, lots of them. Then I total up the cost. Could those $2 seed packs really add up to hundreds of dollars? I refigure, recalculate and, finally, delete.
Deleting is a wonderful thing. It forces you to look at what you already have, to dig through old piles of rocks or steppingstones and ask yourself, can I do something with these? Old scraps of wood are nailed together for cold boxes, compost is turned, and rich, new soil is carried out to the garden for layering. Seeds are planted in Dixie cups and placed in front of every available window. Reference books are stacked by the bed so I can check plant zones.
When spring is close, activity revs up in the Milner/Bagwell household and garden. My plants and I begin stirring around, thinking about waking up—but not till the dormancy has finished its work, and plants and gardener alike are fully rested and ready for spring again.
[Cinthia Milner lives in Leicester.]
This is the most lovely description of fall-ing into winter that I have ever read.
When moving from my husband’s native California to a more natural for me, 4-season area, he found out what I meant when I talked about how exhausting 300-days a year of nice weather can be.
The restfulness of winter that you describe for plants and humans is nature and natural.
Martha
Martha, thank you for the comment and welcome to North Carolina where you are free to go dormant! (We should advertise ourselves that way.) I’ve often wondered what it would be like to live in a season-less area. I expect I would eventually fall over from never stopping. I need the seasonal prompts. Especially now–I’d hate to miss these glorious fall days and the chance to stop and look around. You’re right plants aren’t alone in their need for dormancy.
Hey Cinthia, I also liked your article, as I age I want a dormant time more often. I moved from A-ville to the seasonless Virgin Is. I do miss the season changes.
We have three seasons- tourist season, hurricane season, and summer.
Well, I hope summer is pleasant. The Virgin Islands must be full of amazing botantical treasures. I would love to see it. I’ve always wanted to grow exotics–anything tropical, but don’t have the space and have a husband who is all “native” in the plant department. What grows in your garden?
Hey Cinthia
We have a major shortage of key ingredients….water and decent topsoil. NC is truly blessed country from that standpoint.
That being said we do have some interesting things, one of my favorites is a Lignum Vitae tree I started from seed when moving here, from there, 20 yrs ago….It was in a pot for yrs and we planted it in the yard awhile back.
We have incredible orchids, you would die over those, we also have Earthboxes with varieties of Tomatoes, pepper does well here, and okra does well here. Limes, and a great grapefruit tree that is loaded this yr. cuz we had lots of rain.
Oh, the “wood of life” tree either because of the medicinal purposes or all round purposes–can’t remember which. Wasn’t it the tree in the book, Love in the Time of Cholera? How tall is it 20 yrs. later? I’d kill for the orchids. I have a few in-house, pathetic at best. Foxgloves abound, very literally abound, in my garden along with hollyhocks. The okra is a favorite here, and always gives a good crop. But we’re most famous for our cantalope. It grows like mad and is very tasty–no grocery store stuf.
Well, 20 yrs later it is maybe a whopping 5 ft. Very slow grower. The wood is so dense it will sink. The leaves and seeds are medicinal altho I have never tried them.
Oh how I miss my dad’s cantaloupes. In summer he and I would be first up and we always had a “vine riper” to share and argue politics…..
What a lovely memory. I have many of my grandfather and gardening–he taught me, out of necessity, how to garden. Now, you’ve got me thinking of the Virgin Islands and how I should visit there. I’ve never been. When’s the best time?
Xmas is nice but usually busy here, (more expensive) anytime, the weather is always nice….but July – oct can be buggier and hotter and that is when I long for NC.