Radical Trust

This is not my usual topic; I am generally more comfortable with plants than people, our species often driving me to despair. Certainly, this has been one of those weeks. Someone sworn to protect the community kills an unarmed man, justified protests against this horror turn violent, attempts to control the violence beget more violence. Not humanity's finest hour.

By now, many of us have probably heard of Genesee County, Michigan, Sheriff Chris Swanson's peaceful walk with a group of protestors. Flint is a city in which too many people have no reason to trust public officials, given the toxic drinking water still coming from too many taps. And yet a situation that could have been disastrous--wasn't. Hundreds of protesters had been marching for some time when they arrived at police headquarters. They had to know about the violence that has erupted around the country. In the capital city of my own state, a city council member, a county commissioner, and a no-longer-young US Congresswoman were pepper-sprayed by police. In New York, a police SUV drove into a crowd. In Detroit, a young man was killed in protest-related violence. In Flint Township, the marchers found armed police in riot gear. The protesters sat to demonstrate their peaceful intentions. The sheriff asked them what they wanted. Eventually, "walk with us" was the response. He took off his protective helmet, laid down his baton, and the police and the protesters became a group of people who walked together in a show of grief and determination to prevent more killings.





The courage of those people in Flint brought me to tears. What made Flint different from Minneapolis or New York or Atlanta or Columbus? Maybe it was trust.

The protesters chose nonviolence, trusting that their choice would prevent a violent response from the assembled officers. Sheriff Swanson removed his protective gear, trusting that the people around him meant what they said. They marched together, trusting in the American right to freedom of assembly. And everyone went home safely.

This kind of trust is radical, a word that we often forget comes from the Latin for "having roots." Radical trust is not just the ultimate reliability of crowdsourcing. A radical trust is rooted in character, whether of a person or of a society. This radical trust requires courage, the ancient word for heart.  Those leading the protest marched knowing the risk of violence, but they trusted in their own peaceful intentions. The sheriff knew that removing his protective helmet placed him at risk, but he trusted in the integrity of the marchers. They demonstrated that we do not need to distrust those we perceive as different from us.

Yesterday, Flint demonstrated trust in community and in each other. Dare we trust the rest of the country to do the same?

Why We Garden

Yes, there are the practical reasons--fresh food, and exactly the varieties we want. And the environmental reasons, like providing habitat for pollinators and other local wildlife. 

And I definitely get excited at the year's first butterfly, bumblebee, and hummingbird, and am always happy to see birds darting from plant to plant and providing a soundtrack to my puttering.

But sometimes, like now, the truth is that the pleasure of seeing so much floral exuberance is my main reason for this activity. Iris season is just--so.

It is not possible to pick a favorite, with so many luscious, easy-to-grow lovelies out there, but this outrageous pink, acquired from a local plant sale, is up there on the list.

This pale blue, donated to the same sale by the same plant-collecting friend, is also stunning.

And then there are the other types, like this Siberian iris.

In addition to being drop-dead gorgeous and difficult if not impossible to kill, irises play surprisingly well with others (despite their occasional thuggish tendencies). This heirloom iris blooming in front of Physocarpus "Diablo" is one of my favorite late-spring combinations.

This bicolor blooming near allium "Purple Sensation" and hosta "Guacamole" also makes me happy.

Irises, I recently learned, have been cultivated for literally thousands of years, with the straight species Iris pallida still available today. Mine came from a clump of my mother's, who inherited it when she and my father retired to a cottage built in the 1930's. This ancient bloom smells like grape Kool-Aid (so one must wonder if the people who create processed food copied the fragrance from the flower).

Different weeks bring different extravagances in the garden, but right now, I am celebrating irises.

When the birds won't cooperate

you photograph something else, of course.

May is prime birding season in Ohio, with the neotropical migrants coming through, local birds nesting and gifting us with lots of adorable babies, and goldfinches showing off their ridiculously gorgeous breeding plumage. Yesterday's perambulations of two urban parks (okay, large parks, in the multiple hundred of acres) brought sightings of two species of woodpeckers, lots of finches, blackbirds, bluebirds, indigo buntings, scarlet tanagers, and at least one magnolia warbler. Of course, none of these birds would sit still to be photographed.

A return to the larger of the two parks this morning was a birding bust. The day was gray and misty, and the birds were hanging out in the trees or leaf litter and trying not to be seen, though their calls were everywhere. Still, no park perambulation is ever wasted.

Misty mornings are fine times to view a wet meadow,

and the approach to the Ellen Biddle Shipman-designed formal garden was perhaps even more romantic than usual.

Droplets from last night's rain were still hanging on an old copper beech

and the fallen blossoms of cherries and crabapples were making quite a lovely mess.

A tree of a species I did not recognize (locust, maybe?) was trying to grow leaves right out of its trunk,

and its bark was a world of its own.

Not a bad way to spend an hour or two.