I inherited my grandmother’s impatience in the garden (see previous post), something I’ve been working on the past 15 years. And so I’ve been checking on my wisteria every day (ok, twice a day) since I planted it last week. So far, nothing visible to report except that Rosie, my wife’s exceedingly stupid dog who tramples through my gardens with abandon, caring much more about catching that chipmunk than avoiding my Labrador violets or snapping off my oriental lilies just as they poke through the soil, and who thereby tries my patience endlessly, has clearly been leaning against it on several occasions. She has no idea how lucky she is to be alive. Fortunately for her, I care considerably more about preserving my marriage than I do about the damage she has done thus far. I would counsel Rosie not to count on my continued forbearance, however. Except that Rosie is too stupid to be counseled about anything.

Now my previous dog, Nava, there was a dog for a gardener to have. Smart, she was. I bet she could have passed calculus if she had opposable thumbs. She rarely set foot in the gardens, and when she did she always stepped daintily between the plantings, never once trampling a prized perennial underfoot. Nor did she ever do her business in the garden, something I can’t say for Miss Rosie. And the rabbits knew not to mess around in Nava’s yard. Nowadays I’m plagued by rabbits who treat Rosie with about the same degree of respect as the chipmunk. As a consequence, my morning glories are currently 3 inches shorter than when I first planted the seedlings back in May, and the moonflower that should have clambered about 6 feet up the tree trunk by now is a pathetic browsed thing going nowhere.

If rabbits like wisteria shoots, I’m joining the NRA.

As I wrote, there’s nothing visible to report about the wisteria’s growth, but that doesn’t mean it’s not doing anything. I have to keep on reminding myself that there’s surely all sorts of growth going on beneath the surface as it sets its roots and claims territory in the garden. I remind myself of the same thing when I’m teaching. Just because I sometimes find myself lecturing to a classroom of silent students, or advising a student who perches quietly and reservedly on the edge of the chair as if the least challenge will precipitate a startled flight out of my office, doesn’t mean there isn’t a whole lot of active learning going on beneath the surface. In education as in the garden, often it’s the growth you have to dig to find that matters most and holds the greatest promise for longterm success.