Unsung icons: The Zen garden Ah, the serenity – or not
COMEDIAN DAVID SMIEDT TAKES AN IRREVERENT, BUT APPRECIATIVE, LOOK AT THE CLASSIC THINGS THAT DEFINE YOU-BEAUT AUSSIE LIFE
YOU KNEW YOU’D made it WHEN YOU COULD PAY SOMEONE TO CLEAN YOUR HOME, BUT SWEEPING OUTSIDE WAS your TIME
A GENERATION AGO,
our gardens were enough. Governed by the seasons and enthusiasm of the homeowner, they rewarded effort with colour, fragrance and a patch of lawn you could sink your toes into or pitch a cricket ball on. If you wanted to recline, you popped a towel down on the ground and that was that. If you were given to flights of fancy, you maybe threw in a birdbath as an aesthetic doff of the trilby to traditional English gardens, but always with the intention this addition had a job – namely, to attract birdlife. Ditto the weathervane, whose creaking madrigals warned of impending events and gave dads the chance to use the term nor’-wester. As far as other accessories went, there was maybe a rose trellis, but only if you were a bit fancy, and a fountain if you had the space and budget.
Yet somewhere towards the back end of last century, many of us re-evaluated the relationship we had with our gardens. Like any such trysts, we’d weathered storms together, there were periods of growth, fallow times and even moments of rediscovered fragrant infatuation. Now, however, we looked across the bed(s) and thought, “You know what? I deserve more. Especially in terms of sensual stimulation.”
If your eyebrows were raised by that last sentence in a decor magazine, calm the organic farm – this isn’t about to turn into 50 Shades Of Grevillea. Somehow, however, we collectively decided the rustling of foliage or nature’s raucous alarm clock that is the magpie didn’t give us the aural satisfaction a garden could and should.
We wanted our private green spaces to sound like the hotel in Bali where we spent Christmas, and nothing would achieve this goal like a wind chime made of various lengths of bamboo. Bamboo we paid top dollar for in Kuta, and which got us a stern talking-to at customs back home. Affixed to a frangipani tree, it did the job – the vibe was pure Indo vay-cay. Until the first proper Aussie winter storm rolled in, and the gentle timber burbling escalated to the point where it sounded like the world’s biggest game of Jenga was being played a metre outside the living room window. Others demanded a more visual upgrade, and went for one of those twirly metal doodads that spun on myriad axes, hurt your brain after a chardonnay or two and were invariably sold by tie-dyed, patchouli-scented market traders who were 15 years off deciding their true calling lay in kombucha.
All the while, we gently scoffed at our out-of-touch parents with their twee free-form ponds watched over by a concrete frog. They probably (and justifiably) did likewise when we shelled out for Japanese water features such as the one in Kill Bill. It filled then emptied into a reservoir with a crisp ‘thwock’ every couple of minutes – because the sound of running water alone was sooooo passé. And it was fun for the first night. At which point it became the enemy of insomniacs, disturber of dogs and Tinder for mosquitoes.
Still we wanted more zen. What was obviously required was to mark out a few square metres with stones and then fill it with sand designed to be brushed into wavy patterns. Known as karesansui or ‘dry landscape’, these stylised plots were said to serve as an aid to meditation about the true meaning of life (there were mini desktop versions, too – ‘executive toys’ is a whole other article on its own). You knew you’d made it when you could afford to pay someone to clean your home, but sweeping outside was YOUR time. Because you deserved some fine-grained serenity.
You’d be hard-pressed to find such a granular folly nowadays and it seems we’re regressing to a simpler place in terms of our gardens, an emphatic realisation that the soundtrack, smellscape™ and visuals of nature were always going to outperform any modifications we might impose. Because that’s its jam – it will endure no matter how many trinkets we throw its way. Call it a sign of the chimes.