Ben Haggard

Twenty-four students crowded into my living room. They were visiting from the Intro to Sustainability program at the Santa Fe Community College and had come to see the way I live with my garden.

Earlier this year I had decided to open up my house for local groups wanting to learn more about permaculture. I wanted the effort and resources I was investing in the garden to serve something larger than a nice view from my dining room.

The garden is designed with over-planted beds and narrow winding paths. It works great for one or two, but twenty-four is another story. So I invited smaller teams to spread out and see what they could figure out about what was going on with this property. One group took on the topic of water, another food, another energy, and the last habitat. Then we regrouped and collected their observations.

Afterward we met in the living room, and they described the potential they saw, and things I could improve to realize that potential. Two ideas particularly struck me. First, they suggested that I could involve my tenants in the garden—offering opportunities both for apprenticeship as well as creating a stronger sense of community among us. The second was to extend habitat beyond the boundaries of the property—recruiting my neighbors for a neighborhood habitat program.

In the most natural way, the conversation had shifted from what I could do as an individual to what a collective can do. I believe that the issues the planet is facing will require communities to come together to do what an individual can’t. Professionally, my focus has shifted to helping communities figure out how to work together on restoring the natural and human ecosystems they are part of. This group of students challenged me to do the same in my personal life.

At breakfast this weekend a friend passed on an old story:  a Quaker community had planted food gardens.  Someone reported that local people were stealing the food.  The members deliberated briefly and came to the conclusion, “We need to plant more.”

Another popular story is known by every school child in Germany.  Many years ago, a nobleman in the village of Ribbeck owned a wonderful pear tree.  The children in the village were allowed to steal the pears.  Knowing that when he died his descendents wouldn’t allow the practice to continue, the nobleman planted another pear tree in the village common.  The tree still stands, focal point for a beautiful botanical garden.

Yesterday, Joe came in to report that overnight something had eaten two more rows of lettuce seedlings.  “Who’s doing this?!” he wanted to know.  At this time of year it could be anything, but probably it’s the snails the early rains have brought on.

I can’t share his outrage.  Gardening in this environment has made me philosophical.  My strategy is to plant more.  Let the plants outgrow the droughts and mildews and weeds and snails and gophers and  flea beetles and sowbugs.  I’ll never be able to control the pests or weather, so mostly I let them work it out among themselves.

Year after year the ladybugs show up just as the aphids get out of hand.  Last year, four hawks perched in the elm that overhangs my driveway and cleared out the mice, rabbits and squirrels.  The increasingly dense and robust plantings shade out the anthills.  Centipedes, birds, and other predators hold the bugs and beetles in check.  Trapping and burying a couple of gophers maintains their population at an acceptable level—and I’m hoping to recruit a bullsnake one of these days.  Eventually I’ll teach myself to prepare escargot.

I can afford to share the superabundance of the garden with those who depend on this oasis of life in the middle of the city.  Why prefer hummingbirds to slugs?  (Well, okay, I do prefer hummingbirds to slugs, but I also want to make space for everyone.)  Santa Fe once exported its agricultural surplus to Denver.  Now we can’t feed ourselves.  Time to plant more. 

A few weeks ago, Loretta brought bees.  Trained as an anthropologist, her interest now is bee society.  She once told me about Rudolf Steiner’s theories regarding the importance of both swarming and the queen’s mating flight for maintaining hive health.  The hive builds energy during these crucial moments, with bees spiraling up in a powerful vortexian dance.  It’s a process of renewal, truncated by the commercial practice of artificially raising queens to start new hives.  

 Loretta has a small honey business.  She raises hives on her roof, as well as in friends’ gardens around the region.  For years, I planted bee habitat in the hope that someday I could keep hives.  But I haven’t had the extra focus to learn beekeeping.  So playing host to two of Loretta’s hives has been a perfect solution.

The pleasure of living with bees is greater than I could have imagined.  One of the hives sits next to a small lily pond where I can watch their spiral patterns from my kitchen.  The sun wakes them.  The hive vibrates with a friendly joyful hum.

I’m able now to observe their habits.  For example, they prefer the garden plebeians—the horehound or catmint—to more aristocratic flowers.  They seem to like those strong, slightly skanky smells and flavors.  They stay in bed late on rainy days.  And they never move in straight lines. 

One hot morning a bee and I worked side by side—me watering, she tending a blue penstemon flower.  It dawned on me that I was observing the literal working of essence.  The plant accepts the water I give it, alchemically transforming it into leaf and blossom, pollen and nectar.  The bee sips the nectar, concentrating and transforming it into honey.  From watering can to honey in two small and infinite steps. 

Lots of photos from yesterday morning.