The Garden of Marriage

The Garden of Marriage

by Katherine Hauswirth

I watched last evening as my husband peered over our back deck railing. He gazed down at the six rosebushes he had planted, commenting on their beginning buds and the threat of milk-rot and aphids. His strategy with the garden is to fret, and stroll its perimeter frequently. He inventories both weeds and desired growth, draws sketches, writes lists, debates alternatives and consults trusted gardening mentors. The process renews itself with the next planting season. He draws enormous satisfaction from this toil and trouble, although sometimes I fear his preoccupation obscures the natural beauty before him. Perhaps it is born of laziness, but I like to believe that in the world of gardening: a) less is more and b) in the great plan of nature things will inevitably take care of themselves. My image of the perfect garden sprawls and rambles and surprises the viewer, like the famed children's Secret Garden. Gardens will achieve beauty whether we frenetically tend them or not, sometimes even more stunning for the lack of tedious attention.

We have been through several garden schemes. Although I would rather stay suspended in the hammock, I take an obligatory stroll with Tom around the property. I inevitably wince as he plans his uproots and transplants. I think, "I like it the way it is. Can't we just leave it alone?" After nine years of marriage, I have stopped voicing this opinion. The changes in gardening are important to my husband. Besides, Tom does the lion's share of the outdoor work, so in all fairness I leave these jarring decisions to him. My lackadaisical approach to any sort of plant, including cut flowers, has left me with the reputation of not appreciating the greenery. Despite Tom's accusation, this is in fact not true. I love the colors and the smells, the plush luxury of leaves and stalks and petals. I don't relish the work, but in theory am willing to do it. Other things get in the way, and as my plantings gradually wilt, I regret my carelessness. I like to fantasize that love alone will keep my plants going. But I understand that without Tom's persistence the garden would gradually falter and die.

My philosophy of marriage is directly analogous to Tom's gardening approach. Tend it, talk about it, painstakingly excise threatening developments, consult others, panic a little at the first slight sign of encroaching rot. I have learned over the years that in fact Tom does care, although seemingly unmotivated to join me in my pursuit of the "perfect" marriage. The morning after an argument, having barely slept a wink, I find Tom snoring contentedly next to me. The demons still barely subdued, I need to rehash last night's happenings at length, analyze what happened, and formulate a new and improved plan. Every tiff forebodes potential divorce. Tom looks at me with puzzled sympathy, "What are you so worried about, what's the big deal?" He is serenely confident that the marriage can survive just about any storm. I am citing the statistics for divorce and warning that marriage is hard, hard work. He hates it when I say that. He likes to believe that less is more, that things will take care of themselves.

Tom grew up with two loving parents who, while they still don't seem to talk much, have obviously enjoyed their life together. They remain steadfast to this day, constant in their mutual affection. Tom recalls a handful of vicious fights and a slew of small episodes of disagreement. He remembers his mother purchasing Streisand's, "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" album as a not so subtle message for their anniversary. His father, also having thought of their recent slump, went out a bought an extravagant ring. His mother stood crying and red-faced in the cloud of relief and embarrassment that followed. Things were okay again, as they seemed to have been forever.

Not surprisingly, the family's garden was immaculately tended. It was talked about over dinner and guests were encouraged to take a strolling tour. As a matter of fact, it still rivals most of the houses on the block. Papa gingerly uproots and packs plants for us to transplant in Connecticut. He also talks ad infinitum about the garden. I have never heard Papa talk half as much about Mama, despite their obvious fondness for each other.

I on the other hand lost my father at six. My mother did not remarry. I gleaned my information about relationships from my friend's parents, women's magazines and television. My friend's parents of course always seemed ideal. They were on their best behavior in my presence. On the other hand, the magazines and television talk shows promised doom and gloom unless a constant sense of watchfulness was established. As a newlywed especially, I had no reliable meter for how serious a conflict really was. I have since learned that there are degrees, and every break in peace so far has been manageable. I do think, however, that the relationship is better for my watchfulness. I have calmed down a bit but do monitor any new development. Mirroring my obligatory strolls around the garden, Tom listens to a relationship rant or rave with quiet fortitude. He has learned to defer to my concerns and let me putter around the marriage awhile.

My mother's garden was rather ordinary and low maintenance. I have glorious memories of the plants, despite its predictability. The daffodils appeared every spring, the pussy willow and lilac graced our pathway. The mulberry tree scattered purple splotches everywhere. Cacti, jelly and spider plants spilled over the tables in the sun-room. I'm sure it occurred, but I don't remember much weeding or tending. The occasional tour with the watering can, gathering up mulberries for dessert was about the extent of it. Our vacation trips to Vermont were largely undisciplined romps in undisciplined forest and meadow. How beautiful the overgrowth and the bouquets of roadside wildflowers were!

So here we are on the deck, my husband and I. We are products of our environments as surely as those roses below. I will tend the essence of us while he tends our landscape. We will be blessed if, like the garden, we strike that delicate balance of good pruning and spontaneous growth.

If you enjoyed this article, we invite you to read "Keeping the Sacred Fire Alive: Love, Marriage, and the Sexes in the Work of D.H. Lawrence" by John Welwood. ("D.H. Lawrence continues to stand out as one of the most passionate, eloquent and intelligent attempts to recover the basic integrity and power of the man/woman bond.") It is in The Best of Pilgrimage and can be ordered directly from this website; please click on our "How to Order" button.