On Fences, Roots, and the Courage to Belong
January 9, 2026
Mr. Carson, Garden Statute & Steward, Gentleman Amphibian, and Occasional Philosopher
I stand, as I always do, at my post on the back deck, umbrella in hand, coat forever proper, eyes cast toward the damp and thoughtful corners of the garden. The rain has been courteous today. Not absent, mind you, rain never truly leaves the Pacific Northwest, but soft, as if it knows better than to interrupt a good contemplation. It has been a hard winter in the Pacific Northwest. So much rain…. causing untold loss and trauma as houses flood and roads wash away.
Watching it all from my deck, where I have the benefit of a fine view of the fence and an elevated platform protecting me from pooling water, I can see so clearly.
It is a respectable fence. Weathered cedar. Moss in the seams. Built with intention, and a certain human confidence that says, Here. This is where one thing ends, and another begins. Humans seem to find comfort in such lines.
The roots, however, do not.
Below the soil, our shared, dark, generous soil, roots pass freely beneath that fence. The sword fern does not pause to consult a surveyor. The salal does not ask if it is welcome on the other side. The English Ivy that The Gardner is constantly battling doesn’t seem to mind that she doesn’t want it climbing up the deck walls.
I have watched this for years, which is what one does when one is a concrete frog butler with an umbrella and a great deal of time to think.
Roots understand something humans often forget: the soil does not belong to anyone. It holds everyone.
In this garden, nourishment moves by quiet agreement. Fungi whisper between roots, passing messages and minerals. One plant struggling in shade is steadied by another basking in brief, rare sun. The ecosystem thrives not because everything stays in its own tidy place, but because it doesn’t. Because life is generous with itself.
Humans, I’ve noticed, grow anxious at crossings. Lines on maps. Names on gates. Papers, permissions, and fences taller than they need to be. There is much talk of who belongs where, and who does not. I find this puzzling, considering how thoroughly entangled everyone already is.
Rain that falls on one roof runs into another yard. Wind carries seeds far from the hands that planted them. Pollinators, bold, fuzzy diplomats, cross every border without a passport, asking only that there be something blooming when they arrive.
Belonging, in the garden, is not granted. It is practiced.
Dec 2nd, 2025
Seeing With Serviceberry Eyes
This week, as I reread Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Serviceberry, I found myself lingering on one of the central teachings she returns to again and again: the idea that gifts, whether from the land or from one another, tie us into relationship, not transaction. The serviceberry doesn’t simply feed us; it invites us into reciprocity. It asks us not only to receive but to give back, to care for what cares for us.
Kimmerer reflects that a gift calls forth responsibility, and that living well means entering into a cycle of mutual nourishment. Her words nudged me in that quiet, unsettling way good wisdom often does, making me ask: Do I do this often enough in my own life?
I am blessed beyond measure to live in webs of community. This includes family, Scouts, church, neighborhood, and the circles of helpers that always seem to spring up when something needs tending. These people create, raise, fix, carry, guide, and comfort. They take the high road when it’s rocky. They work silently so others can shine. They absorb more than their fair share. They keep our little worlds moving.
But even the strongest among them must get weary.
Kimmerer writes that the serviceberry teaches us not only about sweetness but also about responsibility to the ones who sustain us. She describes how the plant thrives because generations before us tended it, cared for the soil around it, and passed on the knowledge of how to help it flourish. Reciprocity is not charity. Instead, it is honoring a relationship.
It made me wonder: Do we, as a society, provide soft landing places for the ones who do so much?Do I?
As I head into my own “season of wintering,” I’ve decided this will be my intention. Not a grand, sweeping resolution, but a daily practice. To take a few minutes each day, or each week if that’s what life allows, and truly look around. To notice who is quietly carrying weight. To see the groundworkers, the caretakers, the toilers, the bridge builders.
To have eyes of gratitude, but not silent gratitude.
I want to uplift where I can. To thank more freely. To offer help without waiting to be asked. To practice the kind of gentle reciprocity Kimmerer describes: the kind that builds community rather than extracts from it.
Because if the serviceberry teaches us anything, it’s that sweetness grows where care flows both ways. And that we are always, always part of a larger circle.
Reflections from a Frog Named Mr. Carson
by Mr. Carson, Garden Statute & Steward, Gentleman Amphibian, and Occasional Philosopher
This morning began, as many do, with the polite tap-tap of dew on the roof of my watering can. I emerged from my home, a deck in need of repair, and opened my umbrella, more from habit than necessity. One likes to maintain appearances.
From my vantage point next to a rose bush in a pot and an empty deck planter, I took stock of the garden. A fine chaos, as always. A proper English garden aims for restraint, control, and the symmetry of roses in obedient rows. But here in the Pacific Northwest, we are ruled by rain, mushrooms, and rampant blackberries. An uncultivated democracy, you might say.
The new, no-spill bird feeder was already in full uproar. Chickadees bickering like Parliamentarians, juncos darting in and out with passive-aggressive efficiency. But the real trouble was the hummingbird.
He’s no bigger than a thimble, but he zips in like an air raid, dive-bombing anything that dares approach the nectar. I’ve seen him chase a blue jay clean across the property line. He is small, yes, but tyrannical. One can be both, you know. His favorite spot is on top of Norbert the dragon, as though a hummingbird can conquer a fire-breathing beast. It’s rather astonishing how much control one can exert when fueled by sugar and rage.
Now, I am not a despot. I say this plainly, for one must be clear these days. Being a butler is not the same as being a tyrant. I do not dictate. I serve. I observe. I make tea when required. I do not demand that the garden conform to my ideals.
And yet, how tempting it is.
I watched the rodents of unusual size (ROUSes, if you’re of a literary bent) slink through the ferns. They come at dusk, their movements as sleek as secrets. The bunnies, too, with their soft rebellions under the fence. Dave reinforced it thrice, and thrice they proved him foolish. The raccoon ambled by like a man late to his own party. Before I could issue a disapproving croak, Gandalf the Wise (the garden’s unofficial Lord, entirely self-appointed) leaped from the shadows. The raccoon vanished, muttering indignantly.
And what, I ask, is the moral here? The point of this blog?
There is none.
That is the very point.
Humans, good grief, I do like you, but you do adore being right. You fashion your little worlds around certainty and control. Your politics, your laws, your lawn edges. But the garden? The garden cares not for your narratives.
Here, things happen. The lettuce bolts. The squirrels defy gravity. The soil swells with mushrooms you neither planted nor understand. Predators prowl. The aphids arrive, and they do NOT stick to attacking the nasturtium as you requested. You can stomp and spray and shout about invasives and pests and who belongs where, but the garden only shrugs. It knows better.
There is no black and white in the garden. No good and evil. Just interaction. Consequence. Balance, sometimes. Mess, always.
Even the bully of a hummingbird has his place, infuriating though he is.
When people speak of control, they often miss its roots: domination, certainty, the insistence that one way, your way, is the right and only way. The hummingbird thinks this. The raccoon does not. The garden certainly knows better.
To be in the garden is to remember the Circle. Life consumes and is consumed. Growth is made of death. You are not the master here; you are part of it. A temporary guest with muddy boots and a full heart.
So I sit, umbrella tilted just so, and watch the whole lovely mess unfold.
No villains. No saints. Just beings.
And I, Mr. Carson, frog butler, am at peace with the chaos.
The Enchanted Trowel 