Negative Space
On ikebana and the elegance of wild grasses.
I have not been able to mow the lawn this year. My illness has meant that I have spent a lot of time in the garden just sitting and observing, no energy to do anything more. The grass, which now reaches up to my knees, is beginning to flower and go to seed. I’ve never noticed before how elegant grasses are. They shimmer in the sun, reminding me of delicate Christmas trees on long stalks, their branches lit with candles.
I have discovered that there are many different varieties of grass in the lawn. Some have seedcases attached closely to the main stalk so that if I run my fingers back down the stem I can pull off all the seeds leaving a crimped, wavy line of green. Others have golden seedcases that point upwards towards the sky. I imagine them making ripples in the air like weeping willow leaves touching still water. And there are those with stems weighed down by seeds that bend towards the earth like fishing rods dipping into the green sea below them.
The garden dances in the wind as the grasses sway. How softly they hold the light. How delicately and gently they touch. There are so many different shapes. I love the angles that form between the stems.
When I lived in Japan, I briefly studied Ikebana - the Japanese art of flower arranging. I worked in a state secondary school, the only non-Japanese teacher on the staff, and every Wednesday afternoon an Ikebana teacher would visit the school bringing a selection of carefully chosen stems with her. Any staff who were interested could attend her class for the small fee of a thousand yen. I often went along with a few colleagues, returning to my apartment afterwards with a carefully crafted Ikebana arrangement to place on my tatami mat.
An Ikebana display does not have the busy-ness of a full Western style bouquet with its profusion of blooms. Instead, the arrangement is simple and minimalist with only a few stems. Like haiku, the symbolism of an Ikebana arrangement is often related to the current season. The impermanence of the piece serves to remind you of the transience of life and thus the delicate beauty of a single moment in time.
In the style of Ikebana we practised, an arrangement was always composed of three main stems. Our teacher would demonstrate how to place these three stems in different positions and we would all stand back to study the effect of each arrangement. The shape the three stems made as a whole and the negative spaces between them was just as important as the individual beauty of a particular flower, leaf or seed pod. Each week, I practised positioning my three stems so that they would elegantly hold the empty spaces between them.
These days, I am trying to notice the empty spaces between my own thoughts in the same way. I am learning to value silence as well as sound, absence as well as presence. I extend my awareness to embrace not just my thoughts but the spaces between and around them too. Like the silver lacewings that fly between strands of long grass in the garden, I want to be able to glide between thoughts, noticing them but not always landing on them.
As I sit in the garden today, thoughts of the past drift into my awareness. The scent of warm grass transports me back to being 12 years old and leaning over a gate, my outstretched hand poised for the warm, soft touch of a horse’s nose. And then I am sitting in a different field and it is an a hazy summer evening after my final GCSE exam. As my friend strums his guitar, I feel intoxicated by the beauty of the evening and the possibility of all that is to come, as well as by the cheap wine we are drinking.
Now, as the grasses sway gracefully in the breeze, my mind flits from the past to the future. I consider planting some ornamental grasses in the flower beds so I can enjoy their delicate presence even when the lawn has been mowed. And I wonder how and when I am ever going to be able to get the lawn mowed: I am physically unable to do it myself and I don’t have anyone I can ask. I start to wish I was still that healthy, energetic person who rode horses, stayed out late and would definitely be able to do the things that other people do in their gardens like mowing lawns, digging and planting. Imagine if I was well - I could weed, improve the soil, plant all sorts of plants… my garden would look like all those perfect gardens on Instagram.
But I stop myself. I notice the arrangement of thoughts that have arisen – strands of the past and of the future. A collection of moments. A bouquet. In my mind, I step back to look at them. They are just thoughts. I breathe slowly letting fresh air move between the stems.
Right now, the air is warm and I can feel the sun on my cheeks. A gentle breeze wraps loose strands of hair lightly around my shoulders, tickling faintly. The sound of children playing rises from neighbouring gardens and only a few wispy clouds trawl lazily across the sky. An ant crawls across my foot.
I notice there is a species of grass growing close to where I am sitting with a stem so thin its glowing seeds look like they’re hovering on thin air. I draw a stalk towards me and run my thumb and forefinger upwards collecting a bunch of seeds which I hold like a bouquet. Then I release the bouquet, watching as the seeds catch the breeze. I breathe and, for a moment, my mind is as wide, spacious and clear as the sky above. I feel empty and free.
Perhaps it’s not so bad that I am unable to mow the lawn. Why should I care about a perfect Instagram-able garden? Right now, this garden is just what I need. To endlessly wish for it to be different would be to endlessly wish that my body was different and I cannot live like that anymore. I need to be at home in this body, in this present moment, on this small piece of earth. This garden keeps me connected to the present with the cool grass beneath my feet and the wide sky above me. Right now, if I accept it as it is, it is perfect.