My first spring here at the shore, I put in two small terraced gardens for vegetables. I placed them on the edge of a wooded area where there was good light. Plants have not thrived there. I wondered if I had not made them deep enough for the roots to stretch out before hitting the hard clay. This August, when attempting a late planting of peas, I dug in. Instead of clay, I found roots. Lots and lots of roots.
I knew that there had been tree roots in this area, but I put in a good six inches of soil above them. My clue came from Ed Lawrence, the gardener who offers tips every Monday on CBC radio. Someone was asking about how to replace cedar trees (I think), and he said to water the new trees well, but also to water the established ones. Otherwise, the older trees would send their roots toward the source of water. I expect this is exactly what happened in my garden. I water those beds often, so all the trees in the area moved roots in.
Watching the plants above the surface of the ground, I couldn't tell what was going on below.
When I first moved here, I brought some irises from the farm. One area where there was nothing growing but wild asters and colts foot seemed a good place for them. As I started to prepare the hole, my trowel bounced off the surface. Moving away leaves and dirt, I found landscape fabric. A little investigation revealed landscape fabric everywhere.
I suppose the fabric limited weed growth for a while. Seventeen years later, there is enough decomposed leaves and mulch to make a nice layer of soil on top of the fabric. Weeds do well there. In the area where I put in the irises, I pulled out all the fabric. Underneath was dead looking clay. Once the fabric was gone, I could dig in leaves and compost. The area is now thriving with black-eyed Susan's and lobelia, sage and oregano. And irises.
Most of the time, I am looking at the surface of Georgian Bay. I take note of the height of the waves, the apparent colour of the water, where the changes are. I notice which birds are swimming on the surface, how the ducks are coping with strong waves. That's what I can see from where I sit on the shore.
When I go out on the kayak, I become part of the surface. Like the ducks, I negotiate the waves. I look out across the water. But I also have a paddle board. Standing on this, I look down into the water. I can study the pattern of rocks on the bottom. I can see fish swimming. I see what is below.
These days, the under-colour of leaves is being revealed. Chlorophyll is breaking down. The colour under the green can be seen. Technically, I suppose the red of the maple leaves exists beside the green. But watching the change, it feels as if a surface colour is taken off to reveal what is beneath.
With people, there is a surface that we can all see. With one person, there is a smile. With another, a look of concentration or a frown. But what is under the surface? Does the frown indicate disturbance or is there joy? Does the smile point to a smoothly flowing life or does it hide intense challenges and turmoil? The stranger will likely never know. Sometimes, most friends don't know.
The odd thing is that sometimes we ourselves are unaware of what is under the surface. A friend tells a funny story, and we laugh hard, then suddenly start to cry. We see something beautiful, smile, and then feel an ache inside. Someone asks a question, and our reply is angry. We cut our finger, but as we stop the bleeding, we smile. Something breaks the surface we project, the outside, and we can be surprised by what is then released, emotions we did not know we carried.
The surface is what we see--of earth, of water, of people. But what is underneath matters. It is that world that reveals what is missing or the health and wholeness that is.
Cathy Hird lives on the traditional territory of the Saugeen Ojibway
