Nasturtiums—My Gateway Flowers
Art by Boots Antablin— lyricalboots.com
Growing up I was never particularly drawn to floral arrangements, or flowery anything for that matter. Perfumes gave me a headache, and I made it very clear that I hated roses. My youthful braggadocio insisted I never be given such a common, traditional love symbol as such, and I loathed the romantic, bloomy hues of red, pink, and purple.
I grew my first garden at age eleven, and with the exception of a few towering sunflowers in an entirely separate part of the yard, that first garden was completely devoid of flowers. The rose bushes in the planters out front of the house were good for one thing only in my eyes—snapping off the thorns and adhering them to my face with some spit and a devilish plan of shocking my mother with my unsightly new growths.
Recalling all my previous gardens, after that first one in the backyard of my childhood home, there have been many. There were sideyards and patios, plots of shovel turned earth, and rows of raised beds. I had an unexplicable need to get my hands in the soil and connect with plant life. All of those gardens, however, were flower free. I even went so far as to—try to—remove existing rose bushes on most of those properties because I could just not fathom them part of my landscape. Of course vegetables flowered, and therefore there were blooms in my gardens, but I had not intentionally, since those very first sunflowers at age eleven, planted a flower solely for it being a flower.
Fast forward and I find myself on a small, budding homestead which is beginning to burst with floral arrangements that are being painted into the landscape of not only my garden—but my heart. Obviously, this was not always the case. Very quickly after moving in, it was decided the floral wall paper in the master bedroom and the rose bushes next to the carport had to go. The red geraniums suffered the same tragic fate. The bougainvillea was next in line, but it remained languishing with inattention simply because there were more pressing chores. With some of that same supercilious and misinformed conviction from my youth, I asserted only edible plants would live in my gardens.
Those insolent ideologies began to wither on the day that I noticed the nasturtiums. They were a cool drink of color. Coming up the parched drive, I couldn’t help but see them there, thriving with neglect—choosing to flourish right next to the hedge of oleander where the squirrels hid while calculating their perfect, plunderous plots. I had been struggling to grow every plant I had intentionally put in the ground under that central coast of California sun, but these bright, sprawling vines needed nearly nothing, yet they gave everything. I was stunned by the rebellious color they cast against the landscape. Naive to the ease at which nasturtiums reproduce, and their edible quality, I carefully transplanted a few young plants around the yard and quickly had patches of cheerful blooms adorning different pockets of the property. These sunny spots soon became my favorite views. I learned to appreciate a plant that might not feed the belly, and I gleaned the importance of sustaining the soul with beauty. Imagine my excitement when I found out that nasturtiums were edible.
Since that initial hit of beauty, that aha moment of color and multifunctionality, my gardens have become much more diverse. My definition of edible and functional have expanded exponentially. My compulsion to grow only the conventional garden vegetable has been eclipsed by a desire to fill the garden with as many different plants as I can—while honoring Nature’s abundance as the forage of food, medicine, craft, and beauty that it is—real sustenance.
Most perfumes still give me a headache, but the scent of a flower in bloom makes me ponder its glory. I still gravitate toward the sunnier palates of oranges and yellows, but those other jewel tones are beginning to find their places in the fabric of our homestead as well. The garden continues to be one of my greatest teachers, and humblers; despite my casting of a wide array of color, this year she sprouted mostly purple cosmos and hot pink zinnias. They’re absolutely gorgeous, and they remind me that I’ve many more seasons of growth ahead. Perhaps next season—I’ll plant some roses.
