Cutting back My apprenticeship in the gardens of Kyoto

THERE'S A GOOD DEAL of world's-end whimpering in the air these days. May I suggest that we begin with a bang - even if it's merely to journey into the great outdoors? "Bang!" went my heart when I opened the photographer Jack Spencer's powerful THIS LAND: An American Portrait (University of Texas Press, $45). There isn't a garden in it - only the vestige of one, vines creeping up the side of a boarded-up cottage in Xenia, Ill., a sign of irrepressible life. As is the disheveled shrubbery lodged in a corner of Max Yasgur's barn. (And if you have to ask, you didn't join, in person or in spirit, that ancient odyssey to Woodstock.) This is a book that sets our sights high and fortifies our spirits, even if we merely journey into our own backyards. Spencer began driving across the United States with his camera after 9/11; over 13 years he logged 80,000 miles. The book's epigraph from Wendell Berry best captures his motivation: to "grow humble before the place" that he might "arrive in his place and . . . want to remain." Spencer's work has a magisterial quality; some of it has the feel of photographic painting. Gaze in wonder at the striations of color in Death Valley, feel on your clothes the sopping California fog and on your face the weight of a cloud bank pressing against a lone tree on a South Dakota horizon. There are few people in these pictures, and most of them are, oddly, standing quietly in shallow water, cooling offin shimmering heat. But people have lefttheir traces: in the otherworldly monumentality of a nuclear plant; in the ramshackle ruins of Bennett College in the Hudson Valley, an acid trip of melting architecture; in a youthful scrawl at the corner of a blackboard - Livie was here. And here we are still. We care enough, on occasion, to minister to our tiny corners of the earth. We don't seem to care enough to stop the desecration of our larger home. "This Land" is both anthem, worthy of a grand cause (celebrating without sentimentality this gorgeous place we inhabit), and prayer. "To save the Earth," Spencer writes, "cannot be leftto the worst of us." Many years ago, I read a description of the Japanese sculptor Fumio Asakura's home in Tokyo. As I recall, he was being referred to as the "Rodin of Japan," and he was determined to stave offthe egotism that often accompanies fame. So he designed a garden around five boulders, representing the Confucian values known as "the Five Constants," to ground his daily meditation: Justice. Benevolence. Integrity. Knowledge. Propriety. Just in time to help us understand how the Japanese achieve soulstirring heights with such economical gestures, Marc Peter Keane gives us JAPANESE GARDEN NOTES: A Visual Guide to Elements and Design (Stone Bridge, $59.95). I've spent hours poring over Keane's past books; this one presents a distillation of his years of studying and creating gardens in both the United States and Japan. It's an elegantly soulful interpretation of the essential elements of Japanese garden design. A Japanese garden, Keane says, is "a powerfully quiet place" in which human society and wild life are "understood to be one and the same." No one but Keane would take pains to sketch in the concept of Ma, the space between objects, "the breath of the garden." Even if you aren't planning to build such a garden - though they have a lot to recommend them, since deer have not yet begun to munch on gravel - many of the principles Keane describes are relevant: placing paths offcenter to relax formality or creating depth by layering planes or harnessing the expressive strength of stone elements. In my next garden, I plan to include a chiriana, or dust pit. Originally holes in the ground for collecting debris, over time chiriana have taken on a symbolic quality, becoming places to glance at before entering a garden or room, so as to leave behind troubling thoughts and shed "the dust of the mind." My fantasies of moving to Kyoto were in full bloom when I picked up an unusual and entertaining memoir by Leslie Buck. Years ago, she lefther successful landscape business in Northern California to apprentice herself to some master gardeners in Japan. CUTTING BACK: My Apprenticeship in the Gardens of Kyoto (Timber Press, $24.95) opens with her anxiously pruning a tree in a "not very old" garden in Kyoto ("only 350 years," as a co-worker whispers). In this memoir, Buck chronicles three long and difficult seasons. Her Japanese is weak, so she works in a dazed state of incomprehension; rarely does someone pause to interpret. Her bosses - donning pristine white gloves every day - just yell or are coldly silent. The hours are unrelenting, six days a week. She must wear her jikatabi, two-toed cloth slippers, even in the snow. Her ego suffers as she descends from being among the best of American tree pruners to the status of a beginner in Japan. Sexism abounds. She leaves behind a quasi-committed boyfriend - the only part of the story that feels forced. He might have been pruned. The dream of this adventure was one thing; what Buck experiences proves "tiresome, mundane and repetitive." She suffers, complains and cries; she's lonely and cold and sick. But she works harder than she ever has before. And she learns - about durability and resilience. She learns to prune trees exquisitely. Most of all, she learns that "an apprentice must . . . be the good student." Not a bad lesson for any gardener. Trees take up a lot of our shelf space, and many give their lives in vain; lots of treacle is written about them. Occasionally, though, there are worthy additions to tree literature. THE HIDDEN LIFE OF TREES: What They Feel, How They Communicate - Discoveries From a Secret World (David Suzuki Institute/Greystone, $24.95), by Peter Wohlleben and translated from German by Jane Billinghurst, describes the underground carbon market of what the Canadian ecologist Suzanne Simard calls these "gentle, sessile creatures." Trees bring out Wohlleben's - and our - poetic nature. He describes how trees communicate using scent; how they experience pain, have memory and make family groups. Trees, he informs us, are able to identify marauding insects by their saliva. Wohlleben describes "fungi that operate like fiber-optic internet cables," linking many species by sending chemical and electrical signals through fungal networks and root tips. When trees are thirsty, they begin to scream at an ultrasonic level. He makes a case for the interconnectedness of natural systems: Falling leaves near coastlines leach acids into the ocean, stimulating the growth of plankton, which in turn increases the yields of fish and oysters. Can we learn, he asks, to respect the trees enough to spare them "unnecessary suffering"? And might we learn to do the same for ourselves? The intriguing, and more intimate, WITNESS TREE: Seasons of Change With a Century-Old Oak (Bloomsbury, $27), by Lynda V. Mapes, portrays trees as "scribes, diarists, historians." They are "among our oldest journalists." A reporter herself, covering environmental issues for The Seattle Times, Mapes sets out to tell the story of climate change through one tree. But that is, marvelously, the least of it. She finds her oak in the Harvard Forest in Massachusetts and spends a year with it, telling of the farm on which it grew, twisting up out of a stone wall, and drawing forth people devoted to befriending and studying trees. They are the tree's interpreters. Bob Leverett, a former Air Force engineer and a "committed big-tree hunter," arrives to take measurements and tells Mapes, "I need trees for my emotional stability and health." He bemoans all we have lost in the destruction of ancient forests: "We have robbed a species of its dignity." Mapes is a graceful writer. She describes "the quiet finesse" of a tree; "the fructifying funk" at the base of an oak; the "wand of time" that is a core sample drilled out to ascertain age; the "choring and the weariness" in the diary of a 19th-century farmer's wife; a spider that has "rappelled gracefully" offher glasses. She is spending so much time with her tree that it's becoming a part of her; she sheds it only when she goes indoors at night. As for the vexing (if not terrifying) prospect of global warming, there's no question in any gardener or farmer or arborist's mind: Leaf-out starts earlier than ever before and first frost comes later as average temperatures rise steadily across the land. This isn't a matter of belief; it's observable fact. With that change in rhythm, and a weather system on steroids, come a host of problems. As Mapes puts it: "Leaves don't lie; frost isn't running for office; frogs don't fund-raise; pollinators don't put out press releases." The natural world is an unimpeachable witness, and we would be wise to heed its testimony. "We are not separate from nature," Mapes writes, and in this she echoes what the artists and scientists and gardeners are telling us too. "We are of it, and in it, and we need an ethical framework to match." These writers are steadfast in contemplating justice, benevolence, integrity and knowledge. Now for a little propriety. There are correct ways of doing things, ways that respect and honor others, including trees. You aren't hoisting yourself up three stories to saw offa limb? Then you may be hiring someone to prune your trees - and either way, you should recognize proper technique, so you can help put an end to the savage butchery we see along suburban streets. Two books will protect your arboreal investment. THE TREE DOCTOR: A Guide to Tree Care and Maintenance (Firefly, paper, $19.95), by Daniel Prendergast and Erin Prendergast, offers a survey of all aspects of planting, caring, feeding and cutting. ESSENTIAL PRUNING TECHNIQUES: Trees, Shrubs, and Conifers (Timber Press, $49.95), by George E. Brown, revised and expanded by Tony Kirkham, walks any would-be arborist through a veritable dictionary of trees, from abelias to zenobias. It also tells us what not to prune. The Franklinia, for instance: "Leave it to do what it wants." When we're exhausted after our outdoor chores, beautiful pictures provide cheer. Someone, somewhere, is getting the results we struggle to achieve. That would be Jinny Blom, an English garden designer and author of THE THOUGHTFUL GARDENER (Jacqui Small, $50). Some might argue there's no such thing; a garden will always make you feel dumb about something. But who cares, if your grounds look as blowzily romantic as hers? I first became aware of Blom's work after seeing a sensitive restoration she did in Scotland, included here, around a magnificent lodge designed by Moshe Safdie. Blom is "unmoved by fashion" and acts on an instinctual connection to a place. She was working as a psychologist until she was 36, when, during a visit to the Spanish countryside, she felt mental gears unlocking and clicking into motion. She became a designer - of gardens, furniture and planters - working across Britain, France and Africa. She takes "the pulse of the land" and learns about plants specific to locales, weaving harmonious tapestries of colors. "Gardening," she reminds us, "is a profound holistic experience." I'm told that in Europe the holistic garden now includes bug hotels, which seem to be all the rage among the cognoscenti. With no effort on my part, my entire house becomes a bug stop every spring. But for the more discerning among butterflies, spiders, bees and creepy crawlers, only custom digs will do. On this side of the pond, we're more obsessed with housing for the fairies. For years, I've spared your tender sensibilities, dear readers. Until now. Sally J. Smith's creations are irresistibly, delightfully weird. FAIRY HOUSES: How to Create Whimsical Homes for Fairy Folk (Cool Springs, $30) may catch the fancy of even the most snobbish among us. I wouldn't mind moving into a scaled-up "Bellflower House" myself; did a wee Frank Gehry get hold of the drawing pad? Ultimately, though, I'm with William Butler Yeats and would think twice about luring in the fairies. As he hints in "The Stolen Child," they can be dangerous: "Come away, O human child! / To the waters and the wild / With a faery, hand in hand, / For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand." And while we're with the small ones: The Canadian writer Kyo Maclear is the author of charming, offbeat children's books - a literary genre with which I'm growing familiar as I stash slender treasures away for my grandchild, anticipating the time when he can resist eating them. With the quirky, imaginative BIRDS ART LIFE: A Year of Observation (Scribner, $25) - part memoir, part scrapbook, part meditation - Maclear has flown the coop. I perched with her, happily charmed, for hours. This is a wondrous little book about "being a little lost." While she tends to her aging father, ill and frail, she accompanies an amateur bird-watcher for a year, simply for the pleasure of parsing out his love for the "imperfect and struggling." In the course of learning to still her mind long enough to watch swans, finches and herons, she begins to ponder subjects like regret, roaming, waiting, smallness. She realizes that her sturdy marriage thrives on space, just as the pileated woodpecker needs woodlands in which to roam. When friends are arrested in Egypt, she reads about Rosa Luxemburg, imprisoned in 1916, "clinging to the birds." Taking little trips into corners of Toronto with her binoculars, Maclear examines "the perverse audacity of someone aiming tiny." Her research is "vigorous but useless," she writes, though watching grebes she sees that most of us avoid lulls by filling them with "recognizable busyness." Her book is full of drawings: of people with thick, expressive eyebrows; of humans and birds praised for their smallness; of writers and musicians who wander into detours. Birders might not have much in common, but they share a simple secret: "If you listen to birds, every day will have a song in it." A stunning book of photographs of birds, TORI (Radius, $60), arrives as a precious giftfrom Japan's Yamamoto Masao. A hush hovers over these luminescent, silvery gray, blue-toned or sepia images; I found myself holding my breath as I turned the pages. Each small photograph is its own contained world, its own perfect object - and each one speaks eloquently of regrets, roaming, waiting, smallness. Or speaks of nothing but stillness. Elegiac or joyful? Is there a difference? Yamamoto seems to ask. Shed the dust of your mind; linger in these pages. There's only the lightest touch of text, with excerpts from Seamus Heaney, Emily Dickinson and a few other poets - but in the end they're all the words we need. The world is indeed full of weeping. And so much more. What book do you recommend for neophyte nature lovers? "I can't count the number of times I've stopped on the sidewalk and thought, 'What is that bird doing - and why?' In 'The Genius of Birds,' Jennifer Ackerman answers these and other questions about the intelligence of birds with curiosity and wit. If you're starting a new relationship with nature, this is the perfect first date." - AMY STEWART DOMINIQUE BROWNING, the founder and director of Moms Clean Air Force, works at the Environmental Defense Fund.

Buck is a California garden designer and aesthetic pruner who went to Japan for a three-month apprenticeship in Kyoto, working in some of Japan's renowned gardens. Her memoir is a mix of gardening insight, cross-cultural observations, and personal development. Buck has as good an eye for cultural dissonance as she does for pines that need pruning. She is also unsparing in her self-observations, wrestling with her American ego in the context of another country's work culture. The through line of her narrative is the slow development of her professional relationship with her crew boss, Nakaji, whose leadership style is primarily management by yelling. The changing nuances of her understanding of him are particularly engrossing and give the book a kind of literary skeleton. This is an absorbing read about the formative interplay of humans, cultures, and gardens. (Apr.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

Preface I am the person you spot up in the tree, dirt smeared across my face. "Is that a large bird up there?" you may wonder. My pruning shears busily clip away as I try to bring out the natural beauty in the tree in my playful, sometimes assertive, sometimes delicate way. The tree, shears, and I are dancing partners under the sun. We've been together for decades. Passersby might step right over my pile, despite the rake I have lain across the sidewalk as a deterrent. Sometimes, without asking, they'll pick up a branch for their dog and walk on, hoping not to bother me. Or maybe I'll catch their eye as they walk right under a branch I'm sawing that is about to drop. People are curious about a female pruner high up in the tree, wielding sharp tools. Just as I covet the stylish outfits worn by the women who walk beneath my tree, I believe others want to be like a kid again, up in the tree with me. This kind of interaction would never take place in Japan, where, starting late in the year 1999, I worked for three long seasons, watching the gardens explode with summer growth, morph overnight into radiant fall colors, and molt their leaves after the first bitter cold days of winter. Owing to their devotion and skills, traditional gardeners are treated like brain surgeons by the Japanese public. Clients and people walking by give them plenty of space, never talking to them unless summoned, so as not to break their concentration or pace. When addressing a gardener in Japan, people first apologize for interrupting, and then speak in reverent tones to the craftsman they know has trained like a star athlete, with much physical effort and years of sacrifice, in order to create over centuries some of the most beautiful gardens in the world. But I don't mind if someone asks me a question while I'm up in a tree. I'm naturally friendly, having been born in the heart of the Midwest and raised from a young age in a sleepy California beach town. At the age of nearly thirty-five I went to Japan in pursuit of a gardening apprenticeship. I had to ask permission in person to join the company, to show I was serious, the way others have approached landscaping companies for centuries. I didn't always feel daring. I'm an unusual adventurer: more worried than eager, unable to pick up new languages easily, and often getting lost. I'm willing to challenge myself, but my emotions, both anxiety and joy, always play a large role. Still I never let any flaws in my character keep me from going after a dream. My struggles were a gift. They taught me determination, and sometimes humor. In Kyoto I learned to work in silence, to run fast between projects, and to take breaks three times a day, with green tea and snacks. I grew to appreciate how hard I tried rather than how much I succeeded. I discovered a way to feel proud even when I came home dirty and exhausted. In Kyoto I discovered that 90 percent of the private home gardens of Japan are native; the Kyoto private homes, monasteries, and imperial gardens I worked in were some of the most natural looking gardens I'd ever seen. The miniaturized and overly sheared Japanese gardens I'd expected were surprisingly absent. Most of the gardens were designed and pruned to look so sincere that visitors might think they'd stepped into a piece of forest left behind in the city. One of my coworkers, who once fell asleep in a pine tree, said to me, "Leslie, tell your friends back home that Japanese gardens are as natural as possible." I tend to work with serious focus. So I prefer answering inquires when sitting in a garden with a lovely table full of tea and cake nearby. A garden desires to be enjoyed. I love to teach others about my craft, and I enjoy pruning in the garden one day and writing in a café the next. Spending time in nature allows me to ruminate over my writing and ideas. The gardens inspire me and offer a paid workout. The feminine weeping red pine in one of my sixty-year old gardens, or the two girls I always see walking by with their two well-fed boxers in San Francisco's Sea Cliff, give me an idea for my next chapter. When I returned from my Japan apprenticeship, I built up my pruning business so I could buy a home and have access to healthcare, two things every long-term hard worker should be able to afford. I joined volunteer pruning projects at nonprofit gardens with the Merritt College Pruning Club to teach others my craft. I continued to learn from classes, conferences, lectures, sketching, and almost thirty years of hands-on garden work. The way to become a master craftsman in Japan is to practice one's craft and to teach. One garden craftsman told me that as a hobby he studied ikebana, the Japanese art of flower arranging. When I asked him how long he'd been doing this, he said, "Oh, not very long, only fifteen years. I'm just an amateur." It requires many years of hands-on experience to fully understand a craft. Japanese craftspeople take their work seriously. I begin my story at one of the first Kyoto gardens I worked in, where the garden craftsmen of Japan began to teach me not only about pride, but about how to find heart in the garden. Excerpted from Cutting Back: My Apprenticeship in the Gardens of Kyoto by Leslie Buck All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.