Lessons from a gopher
What a burrowing rodent taught me about letting go
Those who know me know my garden is a point of pride. Wild and unmanicured, it celebrates eclecticism borne of San Francisco itself: renegade, unpredictable, a mosaic of diversity and opportunism. Tall rescued phormium bookend rugged natives. Wayward strands of strawberry tussle hardy local grasses in an ongoing war for turf. Big stones and found objects, hodgepodge pots gushing flamboyant succulents, walkways of reclaimed pavers fringed with thyme and chamomile: unusual friends find themselves side-by-side in my garden, and though their conversation is noisy, it’s clear that everyone gets along.
Yet the cacophony quieted in the presence of a soloist’s voice: that of an agave. Not any agave, one worthy of a sprawling canvas and a paintbrush held by a Georgia O’Keeffe. Dramatic and voluptuous, spiked with showy thorns, this agave — thick-fronded, sage green striped with cream, haughtily habited—occupied the jewel spot in my garden, the place I saw first when I descended my porch stairs each morning and again when I rounded the corner home. Proud pirouetting leaves, Arabesques of pale color, an erect spike of new growth surging grandly from the core.
I’ve searched images to find one that compares. I’d like to show you. So far, nothing comes close. I’ll add a link if ever I find one worthy.
Late in 2013 and early this year, I was given an important lesson. Something I had wanted for a long time, an experience I had dreamed of, came my way. I entered full-force into its opportunity, seeing in it the thing I’d long built up to, the stage I’d rehearsed to stand on for many a year.
Not long into my start with this opportunity, curtains opened. What they revealed was very different from what I’d foreseen. I won’t lie: the awakening was shattering. I never anticipated the gap between the dream I’d envisioned and the reality that emerged. In a succession of revelations—like the thud-thud-thud of a tumble down a staircase—I realized that my attachment to an outcome had interfered with my awareness of a process. I’d seen the goal, that stage, so clearly that in my walk up to it I ignored the whispers of the stage hands and the sideways glances of the cast preparing for the show.
In the ensuing melee I found solace in my garden, savoring the warmth of untimely December sun and relishing the satisfaction of well-pulled weeds, the mulchy smells of leaves and roots and newly turned earth. I groomed the area around my agave, congratulating myself again on its perfect placement and how clear I kept the ground beneath her thorny fronds.
On the morning that had been set for final resolution of my situation—a key negotiation designed for closure and agreement, for moving on—I stepped onto my porch ready for battle yet heavy of heart. My pride. My ego. My dream. All were on the line, sacred cows sacrificed to a fools-gold idol I’d thought was real. Weeks of conflict, entanglement, duplicity and transgressions: these were the burdens I carried as I stepped down the stairs from my home into the world.
Seeking the reassurance of beauty, I glanced to my agave. That is, to the place where it belonged.
In its place I saw rubble: a shamble of fallen leaves; a thick spear of spiked growth thrown askew on its side.
I froze, disbelieving. How could this be? Only yesterday, this prima ballerina of a plant, this crown jewel of my mosaic garden, stood proud and graceful, basking in a spotlight of sun.
Today? A flat scatter strewn reckless on a lifeless silent berm.
What happened? I asked myself. Did a rogue freeze collapse it? A slashing vandal wreak havoc? My mind reeled. Shocked and dreading, I stepped the mismatched pavers leading to its spot. Striped spears lay limp on the ground, surrounding a loamy circular mound of freshly turned dirt.
Gophers are rampant in my San Francisco neighborhood, but they’re never known to eat agaves. Yet I knew at a glance today was different. It was clear: burrowing up through the ground, past woody roots and fibrous thick leaves, a gopher had eaten the pure heart of my beautiful plant, toppling its proud spike and severing its once-elegant fronds to drop flat and detached to the ground.
There’s no use crying over spilt milk, or spilt cream for that matter, even if the cream is the stripe on the leaves of a beloved garden showpiece. I didn’t mourn my agave or curse the villian gopher who gnawed its heart and burrowed back home through his tunnel, full-bellied and satisfied at a job well done. I didn’t lay traps or pour poison or position a trebouchet armed with my beauty’s fallen spikes, as I joked I longed to when I told the story to my friend Wade. The gopher had simply done what gophers do. I took a chance when I planted that agave on that stage. I didn’t consider what waited behind the curtains, under the ground. It was wonderful while it lasted. But it wasn’t meant to stay.
“Will you plant another one?” Wade asked, and I had to answer “No.” What I’d had was all I wanted. I’ll remember it well: the showpiece plant, she of luxuriant color, head-turning line. But I didn’t want it back, not after what had happened. The setting, it turned out, looked somehow more restful without it there. The surrounding plants sounded adequate, even lovely, without its voice. “Perhaps a nice stone,” I told him. “Something simple and strong.”
“Something… (he paused) …something…plainer,” he said, and I pondered the word. Plainer, in all of its layered meaning, its references to simplicity, modesty, absence of ego. “Plainer,” I said, liking the fit. It worked well in my garden, I thought. Maybe better than I’d thought.
I smiled, transplanting the word into other settings, other stages, and finding peace in what I saw.
With thanks to Alex, Jeff, Matt, GWB, & Wade.
