Welcome to The Institute of Rude Awakenings |
My friend Sheila called a few weeks ago. "I need your help," she said. "My therapist has advised me to take up gardening, as a way to work on my control issues."
Now Sheila, bless her heart (as we southerners often say when we're about to be just the teensiest bit judgmental about somebody), has RAGING control issues. An immaculately groomed corporate executive who sits in her plush office all day barking commands, she's grown accustomed to having her way. Her perfectly manicured "lawn and order" yard is regularly intimidated into submission by an aggressive mow-blow-&-go crew. Somehow, I just couldn't picture Sheila down on her knees in the dirt, grappling with nature.
"That's interesting," I said skeptically. "I suppose gardening could be a good way to confront control issues. Sort of like trying to herd cats."
"Cats are out of the question," said Sheila. "They're unsanitary and they don't come in colors that go with my decor. I've decided I want roses. Now if I drop by with some fabric swatches and paint chips, can you make a list of varieties that will be exact matches?"
"Tell me, Sheila," I said. "What on earth makes your therapist think gardening is going to help with your control issues?"
"It's an exercise in experiential therapy," she explained. "When I'm feeling out of control, I become frustrated and depressed. According to my therapist, a garden will be my own little kingdom, a microcosm
in which I can modify my core beliefs as I begin to feel empowered by meeting my esteem-maintenance needs. In my garden, I control everything."
I stared at the phone as if it had lost its mind. "Does your therapist by any chance live inside a hermetically sealed spacecraft with nothing to do all day except smoke crack?" I asked.
"He's tops in the field of rational-emotive experiential therapy," she huffed. "I pay him $200 an hour."
$200 an hour! Whoa. Have you ever had the feeling you're in the wrong line of work? Suddenly a vision of a bold new career plan began to blossom in my brain. I barely followed Sheila's patter about suitable
companion plants; I was too distracted by the colorful business brochure that was designing itself in my mind.
"Welcome to the Institute of Rude Awakenings," it would say on the cover. There would be a fancy academic crest with a Latin motto, maybe something along the lines of "Medius mundis non es" (roughly translated: "You are NOT the center of the universe").
And beneath that it might say, "For a mere $195 per hour (note my competitive price!) our amazing staff (insert photograph of me out standing in somebody else's field) will cure your debilitating addiction to control and perfectionism."
"Hello?" I heard Sheila say. "Are you still there? I think we have a bad connection. Anyway, I'm going to take a tape measure and determine the exact heights and widths I want each of the rose bushes to be..."
Uh huh, right.
My mind wandered back to the new business venture. "Our program of courses begins with an introductory workshop, Control Issues 101," the brochure would say inside. "It may be 'your' garden, but you are not the CEO; you are merely the janitor. Hands-on experiences will be utilized to introduce the First Fundamental Law of Gardening (and Life), which is: You just THINK you're in charge. Students will shatter the illusion of control through a series of therapeutic futilities.
Projects will include trying to force every plant in a garden to bloom simultaneously for a June 21st wedding; attempting to confine a rambling 'Lady Banks' rose to a flimsy 3' ladder trellis; and striving to prevent rain on weekends."
"No orange," Sheila was saying. "I absolutely cannot live with the hideous color orange."
Oh dear.
"The next stage of treatment is Perfectionism 202," the brochure would continue. "This series of classes will focus on the Second Fundamental Law of Gardening (and Life), which is: Nature abhors perfection.
Building on the skills acquired in Control Issues 101, students will develop tolerance (and maybe even affection!) for a wide range of inevitable flaws. Assigned reading will include such gardening classics
as 'Living with Split-Ends and Leaf-Cutter Bees;' 'Is the Color Orange a Felony Against Nature?;' and 'How to Make the Most of Your Godforsaken Climate.' Students will examine unattractive microbes and other distasteful fauna that lurk in healthy soil, followed by a multimedia presentation on The Fingernails of the Serious Gardener."
"I do NOT want anything that's going to die," Sheila was saying. "I don't want to waste time and money on those temporary plants that only last a few months. What do you call them, annuals?" (This from a woman
who has her nails done twice a week!)
"Mmmm hmmm," I murmured, but in my mind I was already turning to the next page of the apocryphal brochure.
"According to the Third Fundamental Law of Gardening (and Life), Everything is ephemeral. Students will learn to embrace the noble truth of impermanence by attempting to save a graceful 500-year-old registered Live Oak from a Class 5 hurricane..."
Suddenly my new career reverie was shattered by a bloodcurdling howl. "Sheila!" I gasped. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," she said. "That's just Martha Stewartwaking up from her nap."
"Excuse me?"
"Martha Stewart, my nine-year-old basset hound. I adopted her from the pound a few months ago."
"YOU adopted a nine-year-old basset hound?"
"I know, I know," she sighed. "She's blind and gassy and she drools on the upholstery. But she's my baby, my snookums, the light of my life. Aren't you, my lovey dovey?" In the background I heard a contented
moan.
"Sheila?" I said. "Listen to me: Don't move. Stay right where you are. I'll be there in five minutes, with an armful of rose books and a pack of liver treats. You're going to have the finest garden this
side of Sissinghurst."
"I am?" she said hesitantly. "But I really don't know much about gardening."
"That doesn't matter," I said. "The nuts and bolts are elementary. What makes a truly brilliant gardener is the attitude. And something tells me, you're on the right track."
"Ok, but make it ten minutes," said Sheila. "We have to go for our walkies first, then fix a little dish of steak tartar for lunch. Don't we, my sweet Boobalina?"
Hoo boy. Vita Sackville-West, move over. |
Vibrating Liz |
| About the author: |
| Vibrating Liz is an avid writer, dancer, gardener, weight lifter, and cancer survivor who firmly believes that 50 is the new 18. She lives in a small rural village in the quirkiest part of the deep south with an engaging assortment of flora and fauna |
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