The Twelve Gifts from the Garden . Charlene Costanzo
Until I was ten years old, my parents and I lived in a redbrick ten-family apartment house in Linden, New Jersey. Perhaps because our apartment building was almost entirely surrounded by concrete, I found comfort in a small, neglected patch of dirt adjacent to our building. It served as my first garden. Enclosed within an unpainted picket fence, that desolate space sprung to life each summer when grasses tipped with tiny purple, orange, and yellow flowers filled the area. Though others called them weeds, those grasses stirred my joy and taught me that good things can be present in unpleasant circumstances.
On the opposite side from our apartment building stood a two-story home that housed a neighborhood tavern. For a time, I disliked that drab gray building. A large tavern sign hung above the porch steps. Beer advertisements glowed in the windows. Rheingold. Pabst. Schlitz. Through my eyes, the neon-decorated building seemed out of place among family homes.
But on midsummer mornings, when I looked through our kitchen window, my heart opened with gratitude and joy. From that window I saw no tavern, just masses of morning glories blooming bright and blue against the weathered gray clapboard on the side of that house. The flowers looked so alive, so pure. The vibrant sight of them climbing a large trellis thrilled me. I loved them to tears. That taught me that a shift in perspective can transform an experience.
One day, noticing colorful clothes of varied sizes hanging on clotheslines behind the tavern house, I realized that a family like mine lived there. My opinion of the building softened further. My initial observations, judgments, and feelings about that neighboring house played a part in my learning to look beyond first impressions and to see situations from different vantage points.
From wildflowers pushing through nearby sidewalk cracks I concluded that life has strength and determination. And if plants can thrive in unfavorable conditions, I can too. Since my first “garden,” I’ve been drawn to all sorts of green places. City parks. Cemeteries. Nurseries. Nature preserves. Each has taught me something.
In this book, I sometimes reach back to earlier times and other places I’ve experienced. I also jump around in time. Mostly, I share the insights I gained in a botanical garden on Sanibel Island. As you read, imagine you are walking the paths with me. Or envision being in the garden on your own or with loved ones. Notice what resonates within you. Listen and feel for your own insights. Even when you’re not physically present, this garden holds gifts for you. All of nature does.
Wishing you the best of life’s gifts,
—Charlene
When you cross a bridge,
you take a break from this world!
—Mehmet Murat ildan
The first time I saw San Carlos Bay and glimpsed our destination on the other end of the causeway, joy surged faster than my heart could swell to contain it. My chest ached with an emotion I couldn’t name. I immediately felt deeply connected to this particular place.
Setting aside the AAA TripTik map that highlighted our route from Jamestown, New York, to Sanibel, Florida, I gaped at the expanse of turquoise water. My husband, our two young daughters, and I were initially silent, awed by what we saw.
Golden ripples reflecting the late afternoon sun twinkled like daytime stars to wish upon. Waves made by boaters intersected and formed mesmerizing patterns in shades of aquamarine. I heard “Wow” a few times. I said it myself as we crossed the three bridges and two tiny islands that make up the causeway. We cranked open our windows, all at the same time as fast as we could. A warm, sea-scented breeze cleared the car air and twirled our hair. A little more speed brought hot wind and laughter. On the final bridge, a group of pelicans roosted on the rail while a row of them glided single file above, like a welcoming committee.
On the shore to the right of the bridge, several bayfront houses stood well apart from one another. To the left of the bridge, there were a few low condominiums. Other than that, all we saw was green. Nothing man-made rose above the trees and foliage. The island seemed to exude a vibrant, humming strength. A peaceful strength of harmony and balance. It’s no wonder: nearly half the island is a protected wildlife preserve. Natural.
As the car passed off the bridge onto land, I felt as if I were coming home to a place I’d never been before. Although I fell in love with the island even before our car reached its shore, I didn’t imagine I’d be returning many times. Nor did I sense the lessons and gifts it had in store for me.
Find ecstasy in life;
the mere sense of living is joy enough.
—Emily Dickinson
In the world of plants, just as with people, we get first impressions of personalities and character. At least I do. Some trees in this garden give me an impression of lightness and playfulness. To me they are reminders to have fun and find the funny things in life as much as possible. They stir my joy too.
The pom-pom palm is one of them. That’s just my name for it. Its most common name is ponytail palm. Officially named Beaucarnea recurvata, this tree is also called the elephant foot tree. Very large and thick at the bottom, with grayish bark resembling wrinkled skin, the trunk does look like an elephant’s foot. But I think the name pom-pom palm is a good fit. The leafy parts of the top, the long skinny frond leaves, stick out in bunches, looking messy like a teenager’s bedhead. If there was just one bunch, I’d stick with the name ponytail palm, and if there were two I might call it a pigtail tree. But with several, this particular one reminds me of a cheerleader’s pom-poms waving in the wind. This tree’s got spirit.
It’s one of the unofficial greeters to anyone coming to tour the garden or to check in at the registration office at Sanibel Moorings, the resort on the island whose grounds are a certified botanical garden. It stands here giving a warm welcome to every passerby too. Or maybe to excited children arriving on vacation for the first time, it chants an upbeat cheer, “Hey, hey, are you ready to play?!”
I imagine it as able to read the emotions of humans, too, so that it knows just how much cheer to extend; it’s a sensitive tree. Sometimes it just looks cute and caring enough to make a person smile. I know it always lifts me up a little higher than where I was before I saw it. This tree is a model to me, a reminder to give everyone I meet a bit of cheer, in whatever form they may need.
Am I anthropomorphizing? Maybe. Using my imagination? Yes, of course. But there’s more to this. We don’t yet know what it’s like to be a tree. Of course we likely never will, not fully. One can never really know what it’s like to be in someone else’s shoes. Or roots in this case. But scientists are learning that trees have intelligence. They help each other heal. They communicate with other trees through soil and air by releasing certain chemicals, and they even warn each other of danger. Really.
German forester and author Peter Wohlleben says that trees are sentient beings. They feed their young, they cooperate, they communicate, and they have character too. There is just so much more to every living thing that we don’t yet know. It’s exciting to think of what else scientists will learn about the inner lives of plants.
In a smaller form than this one, the pom-pom palm, a.k.a. ponytail palm, a.k.a. elephant foot tree, is commonly a house plant. It seems like a fun tree to remind us to be of good cheer. I think it might just be the next addition to my household.
silk floss tree—Ceiba speciose