September newsletter
Nothing stays still
Nothing here at HBS stays still for long. Wasn't it just yesterday that visitors and friends alike moved through the gardens on wildflower pilgrimages to see some of their favorites? They came to see the Skunk Cabbage push through the frost, or the Swamp Pinks with all that rare air atmosphere that accompanies such a sight. We knelt together to look a little closer at the Trilliums, "which one was that again? Oh yeah, I remember that one from last year".
Bloodroot and Bluebells, Cohosh and Cardamine, all riding in on frothy waves of Foamflower, like old friends we haven't seen in ages. They came out to greet us again, just in time after a long Winter's rest. And just as soon as it all materialized in that great green gold of Spring, it morphed into something else. The moment shifted and a steady stream of summer splendor poured through the garden, like rivulets in a fresh rain shower.
a steady stream of summer splendor poured through the garden
Hover to hold it still. Select any photograph to open it.
Part of that splendor for me will always be the people. I never knew how many people it takes to make this place whole. For much of the summer, the Station has been filled with students, campers, summer staff, researchers, volunteers and visitors. I think they all end up in the gardens eventually. They pass through like gentle flocks of birds.
There has been a wonderful sense of movement — people walking the trails, discovering plants, asking questions, working in the gardens and simply finding a quiet place to sit and notice what is happening around them. They give themselves time to get to know the place a bit and, I suppose, that's as much as we could ask. All of those people and all of that motion leading to a calm, quiet, contentment with this place.
And then, just as quickly as it began, Summer moves on. The students and beloved staff all return to school. Campers go home. The pace changes and the moments shift again. The gardens become a little quieter, although never truly still. We are always nurturing this place in a way that extends beyond the moment. Much of what we do may not reveal its full effect for months or even years. The seed we plant today may become part of the landscape for decades. A guest who stops to see the flowers, or the ferns, or the frogs, will remember it long after leaving. A student or staffer may carry something they learned here with them for the rest of their life. I know I did. In that way, the garden is not just a place to keep or maintain. It is a place where experience, learning, and wonder are continually beginning, changing, and being carried forward.
That feels especially poignant as the Highlands Biological Station approaches its centennial. Walking through this campus, it's hard not to think about the many people who have walked these same paths before us — the students, researchers, volunteers, and visitors who have each contributed something to the character of this sacred site. The campus we inherit is, in many ways, a living record of those generations.
We inherit this place, care for it a little while and then pass it along
Now we find ourselves at another moment of transition: looking back with nostalgia at nearly a century of discovery and stewardship, while looking forward to what the next century might bring. Stewardship is less about preserving a moment in time than it is about participating in a continuum. We inherit this place, care for it a little while and, then pass it along — hopefully a little richer, more resilient and more alive than when we found it.
So as the season winds down at HBS, the garden is always reminding us of what comes next. Flowers fade and seed pods fill. The kids are back at school. Did you feel that hint of Fall this morning?
Nothing stays still. There is a quiet beauty and sense of accomplishment in that alone.
Canty Worley, HBS Horticultural Specialist