Cutting Back

by Leslie Buck

  I was busily pruning a California native shade garden at Tassajara, designed by a local landscaper-ecologist, when a beautiful older woman with cropped hair walked out of her cabin nearby. I recognized her immediately. My mom listened to her records in the late sixties. I still listen to Joan Baez’s enchanting album Diamonds & Rust on my turntable. I’d seen Joan off and on for days at Tassajara, singing with visitors, dancing with members of local native American tribes, graciously saying hello to anyone who approached her.

  I tried to act normal as she approached, even though I could barely breathe. When she saw me, she asked kindly, “Hello, what are you doing?” I answered, “Pruning the shrubs around your cabin.” I was at work on some plants at the entrance to her cabin. A gurgling stream ran along the back for both of us to hear as we talked.

  “What’s wrong with this one?” she pointed to a half-dead medium-sized tree that when healthy would bloom in spring with hundreds of tiny blue flowers. “It’s commonly known as a California lilac,” I said in a robotic way, because I’d worked with this plant for years and also because I could hardly speak with someone I admired so much in front of me. “Scientifically it’s known as Ceanothus thyrsiflorus. Ceanothus is not long lived, and this one looks fairly old. I think it’s dying simply from old age.”

  I kept going. “I’m considering two options for it. I could either cut it down, as not much will be left after I remove this dead branch. Or I could just remove the dead wood and give the remaining small living section just a little more time.” Baez listened quietly. This encouraged me to go on. “Seeing as you are staying in this cabin,” I offered, gathering what remained of my breath, “why don’t you decide?”

  She looked at the shrub awhile, touching it, peering into its canopy like a proper aesthetic pruner might do. She then turned back to me. She said, “The shrub is telling me it wants to stay for now.” I didn’t realize anyone else got specific information from the trees, so I felt a little taken aback. Should I believe her? my talking-to-trees skeptic wondered. How can any of us know what a plant wants? Do these responses come from our own minds, or somewhere else? But I thought, If Joan Baez says the tree wants to hang out awhile longer, then I’m going to let it be! She then asked me graciously if I could teach her to prune, so I gave her a simple lesson on how to cut at the intersections of the branches to get the most natural look. I wasn’t sure who was teaching whom. Finally she walked on, and I got back to work on the shade garden.

  The day at Tassajara had been dry and hot, even in the shade. But my last day in Japan, in the little Kyoto garden, chilled me thoroughly. I whined inwardly, Will this day ever be over? Will I ever be cared for by anyone else than the gardens? My thoughts jumped around because I’d run breathlessly most of the morning, a tarp in each hand. At break I closed my eyes unsociably, ignoring the men. For lunch I planned on reading my English mystery. I’d already dropped studying Japanese or writing in my journal at breaks. Oddly, I found over the past week I’d begun to lose my ability to speak Japanese, except for the simplest sentences. Phrases I’d used for months escaped me, as though my mind was in a state of rebellion, preparing to leave Japan.

  I worked myself up into an “I’m not going to cry” sweat, filling my tarp with brown needles and muddy pebbles until my wrists broke out into an itchy red rash from the prickly pine needles. Toshi gave me the undesirable task of cleaning out the dead leaves from a stringy, wet iris clump. It seemed a simple enough task on first inspection. I carefully pulled leaves out from their base. But I soon realized that the plant was located on the north side of the house, a permanently shady spot in winter, where it was particularly cold and damp. I had to remove my gloves to get a good hold. The icy leaves clung to the dormant clump. I’d imagined meditatively raking sand in Japan. I hadn’t predicted that I’d be working on a decayed, freezing iris clump the last day of December. I told myself, I’ll show Toshi-san just how clean I can get these irises! I pruned dead leaves as close to the ground as possible. My fingers became swollen and numb. Your hands still work, I reminded myself with my old tough-love attitude. I snipped and tugged carefully around the rotting patch, full of resentment and resolve.

  Then I began to notice what had been covered: fragile, budding tips of next year’s iris plants appeared, previously hidden under last year’s brown leaves. They popped up just above the earth’s surface, like moist violet and green jewels. The more I cleared away the decomposed leaves, the more the circle of purple, pink, and green buds emerged. The end result looked mesmerizing, a delicate kaleidoscope sitting amid a still winter’s garden.

  To experience the true beauty of a kaleidoscope, one must hold it up to the light and turn it playfully, allowing its magic to unfold. Interacting with a garden allows for a different experience than simply looking at it. I would never have discovered the gem of the rotting iris if I’d quickly glanced at the garden. I had to work in the garden, with my bare hands, for hours in the cold. The circle startled me out of my dark thoughts. The budding irises reminded me that even in darkness, life returns, even stronger.

  In California I turn the kaleidoscope in many ways. Sometimes I hike or bike in the rain. Few people understand how much fun this is. In the wet season, I have nature all to myself. Once I danced in a rain shower at night with other revelers at People’s Park, a community green space where the homeless are fed and students play volleyball. We all danced together. Sometimes I sit in a chair in my garden, drinking tea, with leaves falling on my lap, ants marching toward my slice of cake, weeds calling out. I must sit quietly to notice the ants and leaves. When I am much older, perhaps just struggling to sit upright in bed near a window, I will turn the kaleidoscope by opening the window and feeling the breeze.

  I did a particularly fine job transforming the iris patch in the little Kyoto garden, then I stood back, trying to look nonchalant, waiting to see if anyone would notice. Toshi walked by and glanced down at the patch. He hesitated, and looked up to say in a surprised tone, “Ii desu yo!” (Very good!) Even he couldn’t help noticing the luminescent spot. He had given me my first verbal compliment in Uetoh Zoen. Before I’d worked in Kyoto, this sort of first-ever compliment might have been a big deal to me. Instead, I found it a little humorous. I no longer needed the outside appreciation. For months, Nakaji had complimented me by giving me successively more difficult projects every day. I failed so often because, as soon as I figured one thing out, he’d give me something more difficult to learn. He had faith in my ability to learn, and I’d become more interested in finding new challenges than achieving success. The person I had grown accustomed to relying on for approval was myself.

  Four of us cleaned the already clean private garden till late afternoon, then we made our silent bows to the client, my last in Kyoto, and sped back to the office before dark. Stepping inside, I saw many other workers—some I knew and many I didn’t. It appeared that everyone had come back one last time before the New Year’s holiday! I spotted my three garden musketeers, Kei, Nishizawa, and Toyoka, huddled around a humming space heater, warming their hands. My heart lightened. Nakaji stood near Masahiro in a nearby corner. I sighed. I regarded them all from across the room, feeling sentimental, even though my strongest desire was to return home. I looked over at my crew, while they traded stories in a language I still couldn’t understand. Walking over to join them, I noticed that, without saying a word, they’d moved aside to let me stand closest to the heater.

  It seemed as though dusk descended in a blink, and everyone gathered in the main room as we had done the first morning when I arrived at Uetoh Zoen, all buzzing with anticipation. Then the room dropped into silence and everyone faced the company leaders. Shinichi Sano handed each worker an envelope, except me. I assumed they’d been given a year-end bonus. Quite unexpectedly, as happened on my first day in the company, I was motioned to stand in front of the group and say a few words. I should have known this would happen, but I hadn’t thought out the situation well enough. I could remember almos
t no Japanese at that point, so I fumbled through a brief “Dōmo arigatō gozaimashita” (Thank you very much), my cheeks turning red, with a bow. Maybe they’d think it was the heater. I recovered enough to remember the thank-you gifts I had prepared for weeks, which I’d intended to hand out to each person in the company with whom I’d had contact. I grabbed my bag and began pulling them out, everyone watching me. I’d spent quite a bit of time choosing which gift went to whom, and in what order to hand them out, given company hierarchy.

  Each gift held special meaning. For instance, I’d observed that Toemon Sano, the elder at Uetoh Zoen, did not drink green tea in the mornings but instead sipped coffee prepared with an automatic drip coffee maker. So I handed to him a full pound of Peet’s coffee that I’d brought with me from Berkeley, wrapped and tied with an authentic ribbon. Plastic ribbons do not compare to real fabric ribbons, just as bright plastic flowers cannot compare to even the most common daisy. I’d never give a plastic flower to a Japanese craftsman. Next, I handed Shinichi Sano, the active leader of the company, a wrapped bottle of California wine made by California traditional craftsmen, farmers, and vintners. This present seemed appropriate for the man who seemed most involved in running the company, as it took the most physical sacrifice for me to carry it from California.

  For Nakaji, I’d wrapped with particular attention a big tin of fine English black tea. If given the choice at breaktime, he’d always choose black tea over green. His present seemed lacking in pizzazz, but what else do you give a man who has a thousand-year-old tree trunk in his entryway? I handed out to each of my senpai wrapped gifts of chocolate, nuts, and postcards of Berkeley in the best hierarchical order I could negotiate. Normally we communicated only through nature, so I hoped these choice gifts would signal to them how much I appreciated their efforts to train a temporary stranger in their midst. One of the secretaries painted botanical watercolors of cherry flowers for the company, a tradition that went back for decades. She gave me a watercolor of a delicate cherry branch with fading, transparent pink blossoms. It reflected how I felt that day—tired, released from the intensity of working with a highly skilled, all-male crew.

  I felt I didn’t have to give anything to Toshi. He’d only acted as my boss for a week or so. Honestly, all week I’d imagine the scene of not giving him anything. Forget it! I’d say to myself each fading day, no way, and imagine him not caring.

  Two days before, a strange thing occurred. While sweeping pine needles off the moss under a stylized pine, I had plenty of time to think when I should have been paying attention to the moss. I again went over why Toshi did or did not deserve a gift. He may be trying to toughen me up, but instinctively I just know he’s spiteful, was a common thread. Then a new, and different, voice piped up: If anyone deserves a kind gesture, perhaps it’s the one who appears most bitter. I looked over at a craggy old pine next to me, eyeing it suspiciously. Its healthy, sharp needles had poked me right through my glove just a few seconds earlier while I swept. I didn’t know where that voice came from. But it stuck.

  I’d handed out everyone’s gifts and glanced surreptitiously over at Toshi. He looked as though he was trying not to care that he’d been left out, looking up and around, at his hands, behind his back, anywhere except toward me. Or did I imagine this? If anyone deserves a kind gesture, perhaps it’s the one who appears most bitter. The thought persisted.

  Even on the freezing cold days, I never gave up on the gardens, just as the waitresses at the Japanese restaurant in Oklahoma never turned away from the silly, giggling girls. They smiled at us, moving their fans back and forth. The waitresses, and the craftsmen, inspired me to see beauty and to create beauty. A plant can’t grow without water.

  So I prepared one last special gift earlier that morning. I pulled it out of my workbag and handed it to Toshi. His eyes widened in a slightly astonished look. He took his gift, a box of chocolate and nuts, wrapped with a special bow for a boss. He flashed a big smile. I’d rarely seen a craftsman express emotion. I felt a little surprised myself. I realized in a brief second that, just barely, I had done the right thing. I’d turned the kaleidoscope. Almost everyone said their good-byes and departed, but Toshi disappeared into another room and came back just as I was about to leave, with his hands cupped, holding out to me a pile of small, individually wrapped rectangular black bean candy, yōkan—soft, sweet, dark. He tried to hand them to me all at once, but some spilled on the floor. My small hands could only hold so many. I stooped down to pick up the few that had dropped. I love yōkan. The black candy perfectly reflected my adventures in Japan, a journey as dark as night on the outside, yet sweet and close to my heart throughout. I smiled up at the craftsman and headed home.

  Acknowledgments

  I am most grateful to three exceptional editors: Jay Schaefer, whose advice helped me develop a sixty-chapter journal into a living story; Mimi Kusch, who made my words shine much like the Japanese craftsmen prune trees; and Sheila Ashdown, who drew out key themes. Thank you Timber Press for bringing focus to gardens and gardeners.

  Uetoh Zoen, I am forever indebted to you for allowing an American woman a glimpse into the traditional arts of Japan. I hope this book will teach others like my special crew taught me.

  As the youngest of four sisters, I am comfortable listening to expert criticism. Thank you to my skillful editors: Barbara Haya, Rosana Franciscato, Patrick McMahon, and Eve Goodman. Appreciation to readers who carried this memoir all over world, offering advice in everything from gardening to Japanese traditions. Cappy Coates and Veronica Selver, earthen plasterer Emily Reynolds, Rafael Olivas, Jocelyn Cohen, David Song, Pete Churgell, and Yuki Nara. Many published authors took the time to offer advice. Thank you Ed Brown, Kendall Brown, Liza Dalby, Pico Iyer, Rosalind James, Marc P. Keane, Zachary Mason, Shirley Streshinsky, and Andrew Trouhy. David Chadwick, your book kept me company in Kyoto. Thank you to my client Everal Mitchel for allowing me to do a photo shoot, twice, in your beautiful Shigiru Namba–designed Japanese garden.

  Without devoted mentors, who would I aspire to be? This Kyoto journey could not have happened without the following teachers: my most important mentor, Dennis Makishima, who takes trips on weekends to check up on his students; Stew Winchester, who taught me to love California native ecosystems by shaking my tent so I could sketch a sage at sunrise; Louise Ingber, who taught me ballet and how to be a poetic athlete; David Slawson, who reminded me that “Sometimes what we need to say is bigger than us”; and to Elaine Sedlack of the UC Botanical Garden Asian Section for continuing to bike up that hill!

  Many inspired, encouraged, and listened to make this book happen. Thank you Sogyu Fukumura of Planet Sangha and crew for your faith in me. Thank you North American Japanese Garden Association for organizing Japanese garden gatherings for everyone, Merritt College Pruning Club teachers and volunteers, Sadafumi Uchiyama and dedicated gardeners at Portland Japanese Garden, Doug Roth of Sukiya Living magazine, my initial Canadian referral Gerald Rainville and Corky Facciuto who have both worked for Uetoh Zoen, Carol, Alison, Monica, Maya Blum, Asher Brown, Debra Lande, Julie Pinkerton, Sukey Parmelee, Ron Sullivan, Arlene Lueck, Sayuri and Hugh of Suzuki-Ya Tools, Lillian and Joe, Maryann Lewis, Diane Renshaw, Malcolm Scotchler, Marcello Goo, Suji Ikeda and Kent Jones, David McCormick, Shai Lavie, Mrs. Ishizaki, Maggie Kane, Pat and Patrick Mapps, Janet and Jeff Rulifson, Karen and Bruce Joffe, Maureen Perata, Richard Seibert, Karen Braley, Blake at Cole Coffee, David DeGroot, Mike Jones, Dale Oxley, Hakusha-Sonso Shrine volunteer garden company, Takanobu Mizumoto, Masuume Okiya; Carolyn, Jimmy, and Rose of Meal Ticket; East Bay Bike Party, and sailors at Cal Sailing Club who remind me of Japanese craftsmen.

  I could not have written this memoir at home, and so I thank my writing spots: Far Leaves Tea (Keko and Brad), Crixa Cakes, Masse’s Pastries, Cafe Bartarelle, Tassajara, Green Gulch, Krotona Library, Ojai Valley Inn, Elizabeth’s home, Pablo’s garden, and Clive and Marion’s outdoor bed where I found inspiration watching quails and listening to c
oyotes under the pepper tree.

  I think of you, all those who reached out to help a woman realize her dream.

  About the Author

  Leslie Buck is a garden designer and aesthetic pruner who specializes in natural design in the San Francisco Bay Area. She has over two decades of gardening experience, and a fine art degree from U.C. Berkeley and the Bordeaux School of Fine Arts in France. In 2000, Leslie studied with Uetoh Zoen, one of the oldest and most highly acclaimed landscape companies in Japan. Leslie has worked, taught, and volunteered in hundreds of private landscapes and as well as dozens of public gardens including the Portland Japanese Garden, Hakone Japanese Garden, Tassajara Zen Center, and Merritt College.

  Copyright © 2017 by Leslie Buck. All rights reserved.

  Published in 2017 by Timber Press, Inc.

  The Haseltine Building

  133 S.W. Second Avenue, Suite 450

  Portland, Oregon 97204-3527

  timberpress.com

  This is a work of nonfiction. Events and quotations are rendered true to memory, but to protect the privacy of others some details have been changed.

  Text design by Adrianna Sutton

  Jacket design, lettering, and illustration by Kimberly Glyder

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  A CIP record for this book is available from the Library of Congress.

  eISBN: 9781604698046

  A catalog record for this book is also available from the British Library.