Guerrilla Gardening: My personal and spiritual approach to permaculture
I suppose I have always been a gardener. I remember planting my very first plant at age four, a lima bean which we refer to as a “butter bean” in the south. In preschool, I had carefully planted this special bean, watching excitedly day by day as it sprouted on the sun-filled windowsill of our classroom. Once suitably mature, I proudly brought home my burgeoning legume, tendrils delicately springing forth from its red dixie cup, and I planted it in the field next to our home. I don’t recall harvesting or eating this plant, just the early propagation and planting, and to this day, the same excitement fills my spirit when I see life spring forth from a seed that I carefully and lovingly placed in soil.
Now, in my middle adult-hood, I refer to myself as a land steward, a permaculturist, and as of late, an emerging guerrilla gardener. Guerrilla gardening is the act of gardening on land that the gardeners do not have permission or the legal rights to cultivate, such as abandoned sites, areas that are not being cared for, or private land. For me, guerrilla gardening represents a perfect amalgamation of creativity, practicality, spirituality, grit, chaos, and mischief. Guerrilla gardening teaches patience, compassion, and presence, and it offers peace, health, and wholeness in return.
My personal journey into guerrilla gardening began a couple months ago, during the fall. Having freshly relocated to the other side of the country, I stumbled upon a beautiful piece of neglected private land hiding in plain sight, a half acre abandoned lot perched high above my apartment building where I had recently moved. It was south facing with treetop views and a gentle slope. On its southern edge, a chain link fence bordered the 20’ high retaining wall which dropped abruptly to the parking garage of the historic cotton mill-turned loft apartments positioned on the banks of the boulder-strewn Yellow River. After investigating the county lot lines, I determined that this land is currently owned by the corporation who owns the apartment building, and that it was once the local city dog park. My take on it was that no one had attempted to maintain this lot for a couple of years, judging by the extent to which the invasives had taken hold.
Right away, I had a curious attachment to this elevated meadow. I would spend hours laying in the grass, finding empty patches amongst the crowded invasives, watching and listening to the oak leaves fall from the giant trees bordering the neglected lot. I would daydream and nap, elated to find this secret space just outside my apartment door where I could bathe in the still peacefulness of nature, accented only by the songs of birds occupying the nearby oaks. Initially, I had no intention of tending to this land. I already had a 10’x10’ plot nearby in the community garden which I was happily cultivating, but a quiet relationship was budding between myself and this site. As the days spent lying in this meadow continued, a symbiotic connection began to blossom, and the spirits of this land and overgrown ecosystem were sending a clear message: Please Help.
I understood immediately. Looking around at the suffocating overgrowth, it was clear I needed to provide for this land just as it was providing for me. And perhaps, I thought, through intentional action, the land could provide not just for me, but for others in my community. I saw this deserted patch of land with new eyes and listened to its call with excitement and enthusiasm. My imagination ran wild with all of the possibilities and abundance that this forgotten patch of earth could provide: food, medicine, habitat, healing, reciprocity, sanctuary, and inspiration.
The questions of practicality arose in my “monkey brain”. Was it legal to steward land which doesn’t belong to you? What about vandalism, would my work be respected? What are my available resources? How could this land best flourish with the least amount of inputs? How do I wisely apply the principles of permaculture to assist in the healing of a neglected ecosystem? Oddly, the more questions and doubts I had, the more sense of calm and inner peace I felt. I knew deep down it wouldn’t be the tangible results which ultimately mattered. This land offered something much greater and more ethereal than a harvest. It offered a direct connection with source, spirit, and ancestral knowledge. The land wasn’t offering something you could stick in your pocket, but something you could hold in your heart.
So, without hesitation, I picked up my loppers and cleared the meadow, initiating myself into a transcendental world where spirituality, permaculture, and guerrilla gardening meet.
