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 In
January, we moved into a new home in Tesuque, New
Mexico. At that time we were in the midst of the
biggest snowfall in recent memory, and so our yard
remained a mystery, hidden beneath a couple feet of
white snow. As the thaws came, we discovered that
our yard was something of a construction zone: the
earth was mounded up in branching lines, evidence
of a subterranean highway system of impressive
scope.
We've never
seen the makers of these tunnels or the holes that
lead down into them, but we feel they are voles.
(For those interested in etymology, vole
comes from a Scandinavian word for field or
meadow; they were originally called vole mice,
but are nowadays just voles.)
I love to
have a garden wherever I live, and I already had
great plans for our beautiful little spot here in
Tesuque. But it was now clear I was not the only
one with plans, and our burrowers certainly had the
earlier claim.
Karen and I
are both committed to a no-harm policy when it
comes to other living creatures. We believe in
coexistence; sometimes that means a slight change
in what our animal cohabitors may do and where they
may do it, or what we may do and where we nay do
it, but we wouldn't be exterminating our burrowers
or banishing them with nasty repellents.
Before
turning the earth in the spring, I performed a
garden blessing ritual, marking the perimeter of
our yard with lavender buds, and setting my
intentions, for all the animal inhabitants of the
place to understand: the yard was going to be
busier than it had been in the past. There would be
some disruption - some digging, lots of new plants,
a bit of a change in dampness, and some
rearrangement of rocks and things. I welcomed
everyone to stay, and let them know we meant them
no harm, but also let them know that the field next
door might provide conditions more like what they
had been accustomed to.
From that
start early this spring, a beautiful garden took
shape. We've been enjoying our flowering plants,
and eating peas, squash, tomatoes, peppers, and
herbs of all sorts. Scarcely seen in the spring,
the burrowers returned in force as the earth grew
dry in the long days of late summer. Now that
autumn is here, their earthworks are everywhere
once again. But the inteteresting fact of the
matter is that they have done little harm (if any
at all) to our plans and enjoyment of the garden.
They don't seem to find the vegetables and flowers
I grow very appetizing. (We've left the native
grasses to go to seed, which I think looks a lot
more like "harvest time" to your average vole.)
Truth be told, I'm rather appreciative of the soil
aeration work they are doing!
The birds
here have shown a little more interest in the
garden plants than the rodents have. We are blessed
with dozens of fascinating and colorful species
here, including many we've not yet identified.
They've made a small avian city of the old trees
that line our back fence, and feast on the insects,
which seem to have no difficulty keeping ahead of
them. The birds, you see, keep the garden plants
insect-free, but they can be so vigorous at the
task that the plants get an unexpected pruning into
the bargain.
There were
certainly a few things that didn't work out too
well this year: climbing vines were either pruned
by birds or made too slow a start to do what we had
hoped; some sunflowers were planted where it was
too dry and shady for them to thrive, onions
likewise. But for the most part, things grew well,
and we learned what to change next year. The best
thing about gardening here this year, however, was
the experience of coexistence. I've never gardened
in any spot so dense and rich with animal life as
this. Every little corner or patch of ground is
burrowed under, crawled upon, swooped onto, or
buzzed around.
For us, at
least, the "competition model" of gardening in the
presence of wildlife holds no appeal and serves no
purpose. We can afford to share some of our earth,
and some of the food we grow upon it. The earth is
bountiful; there is enough for us all to be happy
here. Sure, the birds may nip some flower buds, the
voles may open holes uncomfortably close to the
roots of the squash vine, and some appealing
species of flowering plant may decide it doesn't
like the locale or the company, but that
give-and-take need not be a source of frustration;
it's what makes gardening an adventure instead of
an assembly line.
As the air
cools now and the garden anticipates winter rest, I
can't help thinking this year's success and
satisfaction illustrates a basic karmic lesson: we
human beings can be flexible, gentle, and adaptive
in the ways we interact with our places and with
other creatures. We needn't become rigid in our
plans; we can leave room for those who were here
first to continue their routine and coexist with
us. When we do this, we do not make ourselves a
threat, and nature's creatures are comfortable
adapting to us and giving us some slack. In time,
it is not such a difficult thing to find an
agreeable equilibrium where everyone finds what
they need.
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