Cindy on January 31st, 2010
I believe that there is a subtle magnetism in Nature, which, if we unconsciously yield to it, will direct us aright. ~Henry David Thoreau
When I was a student at Michigan State University in the 1970s, three natural science courses were required of all liberal arts students.
An artsy kid, I’d nearly flunked math and biology in high school. So I was terrified, initially, by MSU’s rigid science requirement. But thanks to a very creative counselor who supervised my independent study track, I was allowed to replace the final natural science class with a graduate-level botany course in my senior year.
I was born with a green thumb, so this was both a thrill and a relief. The class required several field trips to outdoor nature centers, which I thoroughly enjoyed. Throughout the term, I learned to identify a wide variety of plant life, and even memorized the Latin names of species. I collected leaves, seed pods, and mushrooms. I sniffed berries and wildflowers. I learned that nature is an intelligent system; more than a thing of beauty in a controlled suburban landscape. Understanding and respecting that system — the miraculous cycle of decay and regeneration — has gotten me through some of the roughest times in my life.
But I digress. Botany was a blast — and guess what? I ended up with the top grade in the class — the first (and only) 4.0 I ever earned in a science curriculum. I’m still proud of that grade, and awed by the fact that so much of what I learned in a botany class serves me well to this day.
My love affair with plants is reflected in the Botanic Garden dish set my family uses now.
Produced by the Portmeirion Pottery company in Great Britain, the Botanic Garden pattern first caught my eye when I was outfitting my first apartment after college graduation. Durable and beautifully crafted, the designs were inspired by original 19th-century botanical drawings, replete with the Latin name of each plant. But the imported dishes were way out of my price range at the time. I was newly employed as a research assistant for a reference book publisher in Detroit, earning an annual income of $7,500.
Margaret, a favorite room mate from MSU who shared the post-grad apartment with me, bought my first Botanic Garden cup and saucer for my birthday in 1979. “If I know you as well as I think I do, then I’m sure you’ll find a way to get the whole set one day,” Margaret wrote on the card that came with the gift.
I didn’t have the nerve to register for the Botanic Garden pattern when I got engaged 30 years ago; Doug and I thought it was too much to ask of our wedding guests during an economic recession. But over the years, we managed to acquire a full set. Luckily, the price of the dishes started coming down in the last decade, and we found several pieces on sale at discount stores and Bed Bath & Beyond. We’ve also received a few of the serving pieces as holiday gifts.
Typing this, I realize it might seem silly or frivolous to romanticize plant science or a set of dishes. But at the end of a very difficult week, awaiting test results for my widowed mother’s worrisome health issues, I find comfort in these simple, ordinary pleasures. And Margaret was right. When you want something badly enough and your heart is in the right place, you’ll find a way to get it. That includes meeting academic challenges — and acquiring expensive dinnerware. — Cindy La Ferle
– Photos by Cindy La Ferle –
Cindy on January 6th, 2010
“Nature has undoubtedly mastered the art of winter gardening and even the most experienced gardener can learn from the unrestrained beauty around them.” — Vincent A. Simeone
Of course, I’d rather be gardening on my knees — on the soft green lawns of May and June. But being an optimist, I try to look for beauty in unexpected places, including my Royal Oak garden in the winter.
I love how the snow dresses the statuary in and around the beds. (Friends unload their garden treasures in my yard when they downsize, knowing how much fun I have with them.) I love the pure stillness of the winter-white air, and how the Zen garden looks more contemplative with less foliage.
The holiday lights are packed away now, but January brings its own subtle beauty to the landscape. It invites us to rest and reflect. Gardening, after all, demands back-breaking chores that start in April and don’t end until mid-November. As garden writer Ruth Stout observed, only in the winter “can you have longer, quiet stretches when you can savor belonging to yourself.” –CL
– Garden photos (copyrighted) by Cindy La Ferle. For more photos of my garden in winter and summer, visit my “Garden Magic” and “Winter Garden” albums on Facebook. –
Cindy on August 7th, 2009
Try to relax and enjoy the crisis. — Ashleigh Brilliant
Summer arrived with its boxing gloves on. Or, as John Lennon pointed out, “Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.” Which is why I haven’t been filling this space with new material lately.
By mid-June, it was obvious that my father-in-law’s dementia was more than my mother-in-law could continue to handle at home. For several weeks my husband Doug made it his mission to help find the right nursing facility — a frustrating family story of trial-and-error that’s way too complex to rehash here. Thank goodness, Doug is semi-retired and has more time for his folks now. How do middle-aged couples handle these situations if they both work full time?
Well, we finally found the right nursing home for Dad in July, but within a week, his condition plunged to the point where he was suddenly confined to a wheelchair (he had walked into the facility) and couldn’t swallow his food. He now qualifies for hospice care. Friends have told us countless stories of how dementia patients get even worse after they’re put into nursing homes, which never fails to pile more guilt on over-burdened families. Through it all, my mother-in-law has been incredibly brave and strong. The rest of us are just plain sad.
But wait, there’s more. My widowed mother, whose health is also fragile (and complicated by a stubborn case of anxiety) has needed me more than ever lately. In mid-July — two days after my father-in-law was driven to the local ER from his new nursing home — my mom called to announce that she had to get to the hospital – that very minute – due to a mysteriously bruised and swollen leg. Her call came while Doug and I were having dinner with our son Nate, who’d been visiting from Chicago for the weekend and was preparing to leave. So, I finished my dinner and said good-bye to Nate, who soon headed off to the airport with Doug while I drove Mom to William Beaumont Hospital’s emergency entrance. (I drive Mom to the ER often enough to call it a routine, and to know the doorman personally.) Regardless, that short weekend visit with our son brought a flash of sunshine to us, making up for the inevitable shadows cast by our visits to the hospital.
August is my birthday month, so it often inspires a few moments of retrospect, if not a twinge of melancholy or nostalgia. And from this vantage point, I can see that the decline of my mom’s health — combined with my father-in-law’s move to a nursing home — unearthed some tender strands of grief that I thought I’d buried after my beloved father died in the summer of 1992. Not to mention my only uncle’s slow death from pancreatic cancer two years ago in August. When loved ones have been gone awhile, everyone will remind you ever-so-gently that you really should be “over it.” And of course, you are over it, most of the time. But Lord knows, that doesn’t mean you just stop missing people.
Anyway, I hadn’t fully realized how numbed out I’d been this summer. Once again, gardening was my sanity saver, my best antidepressant, right up there with reading a fabulous novel and having birthday lunches in outdoor cafes with old friends. I dead-headed perennial blossoms and transplanted hosta and watered thirsty ferns every chance I could get until I felt whole again. And I spent more time with people who make me feel loved and supported, just for being me.
Meanwhile — and I won’t go on too long about this — my enthusiasm for my writing career seems to have wilted like impatiens in the August heat. The national crisis in print journalism has left several of my friends jobless, and seriously impacted the type of work I do. I’d love to resume column writing, but the only columns available to me now are in the form of online blogs that offer zero (or minimal) payment.
Like most professional writers who’ve been in this business for more than 25 years, I find it hard to feel “honored” when magazines or newspapers offer me non-paying assignments. I miss the days when a byline came with the heady scent of newsprint or shimmered on a glossy magazine page … and generated a decent paycheck. Blogging is something just about everyone can do quite well, and everyone is doing it. And so, with apologies and some reluctance, I have to admit that it’s a stretch for me to think of my blog posts as “published writing.” The magic just isn’t there for me.
Which is partly why I’ve taken some time off. I’ve needed to pull back and rethink what’s next for me. I will continue to post here weekly, but otherwise I’m waiting for a bolt of inspiration or a new streak of luck. Maybe there’s another book in me. Or maybe I’m just burned out and lazy. I dunno.
While trying to figure it out, I’ve been pouring my energies into helping Doug work on the Frank Lloyd Wright home we purchased last year in western Michigan. Designed by Wright in 1957 and completed in 1959, the house is one of Wright’s Usonian models and could function perfectly as a set for the popular Mad Men television series. (I can picture Don Draper in our living room, swilling a martini and chain-smoking.) It’s cool and modern and space-agey — so unlike our cozy but cluttered English Tudor here in Royal Oak. For that reason, I suppose, the novelty hasn’t worn off yet.
This summer, the Wright house also gave us an immediate goal, a deadline. The renowned architectural photographers, Balthazar and Christian Korab, had been contracted to photograph it on July 29. Prior to that date, Doug and I spent every free moment we had making the three-hour drive out to the place to get it ready for the big shoot. As soon as we arrived, we’d hit the ground running with our to-do lists. Wash windows. Scrub rust out of sinks and tubs. Steam carpets. Rearrange furniture. Fix leaky shower heads. Power-wash concrete. Weed and revive gardens….
Meeting the Korabs was another incredible summer highlight — second only to our son’s aforementioned visit. While Christian (Balthazar’s son) hauled his equipment around and set up shots of various rooms, Balthazar, now in his eighties, regaled Doug and me with stories of his native Hungary, his studies in Paris, and of course, the time Frank Lloyd Wright examined and commented on Korab’s extensive portfolio of architectural photography.
The physical acts of polishing and scrubbing, of purging our Wright house of its old demons (including the crap left by previous owners), was a saving grace for Doug and me. Earlier this summer, I was watering a new crop of day lilies when I noticed Doug on the roof, repairing a leak in the scorching July sun. Of course, I worried about him passing out in the heat or losing his balance and tumbling headfirst to the pavement below (no more trips to the hospital, please!). But then I saw the look of pure satisfaction and happiness on his tanned face — a look I hadn’t seen in quite a while — and I calmed down immediately. I wanted to wrap my arms around that whole house and the late Frank Lloyd Wright himself, and thank them both for giving my architect-husband something incredible to believe in and look forward to. Something other than sick parents and nursing homes and long good-byes. — Cindy La Ferle
– The middle photo shows one of the gardens in front of our Wright house. Bottom photo is of Balthazar Korab and my husband Doug, taken on the day of our photo shoot. –
Cindy on May 28th, 2009
“The love of gardening is a seed once sown that never dies.” — Gertrude Jekyll
Longtime friends of mine know that the garden — almost any garden — is my “happy place.” I’ll spend hours sorting through problems or pushing past writer’s block while working the soil with my hands. It’s my way of making sense of my world while making it a wee bit more beautiful. In this month’s issue of Michigan Women’s Forum, you can read a short essay I wrote about gardening and midlife lessons. The essay is reprinted from my book, Writing Home, and was I surprised (and thrilled) earlier this year when it was selected for inclusion in an upcoming anthology titled At Home in the Garden (Guideposts Publications).
And speaking of Writing Home, a brand-new, signed copy is up for grabs in a special blog book giveaway this week on Pam Stout’s Beyond Just Mom. You can enter Pam’s giveaway by leaving a comment on the BJM site through May 31. –CL
– Garden photo by Cindy La Ferle –
Cindy on May 2nd, 2009
“May and June. Soft syllables, gentle names for the two best months in the garden year….The discussion of philosophy is over; it is time for work to begin.” — Peter Loewer
It’s the first weekend in May — and the climate is ripe for “de-wintering” my closets. I love the feeling I get when I unload things I no longer need or use. Likewise, preparing my garden for summer plants is a soulful affirmation of my belief in fresh starts and second chances. Outdoor clean-up, especially, is the perfect warm-up exercise for unloading the heavier emotional baggage – old grudges, toxic relationships, and foolish expectations – that I’ve been hoarding far too long. How are you celebrating the season, and what are you doing to renew your outlook? — CL
– Backyard garden photo by Cindy La Ferle–
I was born with a green thumb, so this was both a thrill and a relief. The class required several field trips to outdoor nature centers, which I thoroughly enjoyed. Throughout the term, I learned to identify a wide variety of plant life, and even memorized the Latin names of species. I collected leaves, seed pods, and mushrooms. I sniffed berries and wildflowers. I learned that nature is an intelligent system; more than a thing of beauty in a controlled suburban landscape. Understanding and respecting that system — the miraculous cycle of decay and regeneration — has gotten me through some of the roughest times in my life.
Margaret, a favorite room mate from MSU who shared the post-grad apartment with me, bought my first Botanic Garden cup and saucer for my birthday in 1979. “If I know you as well as I think I do, then I’m sure you’ll find a way to get the whole set one day,” Margaret wrote on the card that came with the gift.
