In November of last year, my husband and I toured New Zealand with a group of Bay Area gardeners. We arrived in Auckland on the North Island, then traveled by bus down to Wellington, the capital, where we took a ferry to the South Island. In addition to public gardens, we visited many private gardens under the auspices of the New Zealand Garden Trust.

In the 21st century, the Kiwis have made an effort to incorporate their First People, the Maori, into the social fabric. We were impressed that they teach the Maori language in schools, and signs are bilingual, although the Maori are 18% of the population. Currently, they are struggling with the backlash to these progressive steps. The video of a Maori legislator tearing up proposed conservative legislation went viral while we were there.

We admired the “can-do” spirit of this mostly rural island nation. We saw geothermal energy plants and a kiwi hatchery and biochar, a kind of charcoal produce under low oxygen conditions to sequester carbon. We heard quite a bit about the efforts of their Department of Conservation to cope with non-native predators and climate change. For two weeks, every day was Earth Day, in a lush green land.

Ten days ago a great storm passed through. Almost 4 inches of rain in Oakland. Such a relief, after all the waiting. Another summer of drought and fires—further north this year so less smoke in the Bay Area—but always the threat of closer, here. I was reading The Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler, which describes our world after a catastrophe. Her characters were coping with years without rain. Even my teeth felt dry.

We spent the month of September in Los Angeles, where I hiked with my daughter past her due date, along Santa Monica beach, on city streets and in Ken Hanh park, encouraging her baby to emerge. He slipped into our world mid-month at 11:59 pm, delivered by a team of black women: midwife, ob-gyn and nurses. Slippery, slimy birth. Moisture is life. In the delivery room, my daughter was beautiful, powerful and my grandson was alert, checking us out. I felt so lucky to be there, thanks to my persistent son-in-law, who argued for me in defiance of pandemic protocol.

In SoCal, I discovered Canary Island pine and plumeria growing outdoors, like in Hawaii. We visited the Huntington Gardens again. But I missed my garden. When we returned, I spent hours deadheading the Japanese anemones and roses which bloomed while we were away, hacking back the Siberian sage. I planted the white Naked Lady (amaryllis belladonna) bulbs a neighbor saved for me but the soil at my sister’s house was so dry that I couldn’t divide her dormant peony. Only after the rain did the ground yield.

Toni Martin Writes