The Tyranny of Tidy

In Defense of the Uninvited — Part II

There is a particular kind of anxiety that lives at the edge of an unmowed lawn. You can feel it from the sidewalk — the low-grade disapproval radiating off a neighbor’s glance, the HOA letter with its careful language about community standards and property values. We all know this pressure. Many of us have bent to it.

I feel it too. At my own eco-art studio, volunteer plants have started pushing up through the gravel parking lot this spring. In modern aesthetic terms, it looks unkempt. Do I groom it because that is what looks cared for to the human eye — or do I do what I preach? If I did clean it up, how? I won’t use pesticides. Pulling is more work than I can manage. I could burn them with a torch, which releases carbon — leaving the lot neat but barren. I know that option well. It’s what I did all last summer. I feel the pull of it still.

That question — how much tidiness do we owe society before we’re allowed to let something live — is exactly what this essay is about.

The ancient part of your brain that kept your ancestors alive is genuinely afraid of the tall grass. It is scanning for the snake, the bobcat, the thing with teeth. That instinct is old. It is wired in. The impulse to clear, to see, to know what’s out there — it kept people alive across tens of thousands of years. We are not wrong to have it.

But we are living in a different world now, and that old circuitry is misfiring.

Here is what the science shows: living plant systems — their moisture, their transpiration, their cooling and breathing — help move weather across the landscape. Strip those systems out and replace them with hot pavement and monoculture lawn, and you remove the very mechanisms that keep weather moving. Extreme weather increasingly gets stuck. Heat domes park over cities for days, fed not just by hot pavement but by the barren heat radiating off bare ground and fallow fields. The fires. The floods. The Guadalupe on the Fourth of July. Hurricane Harvey. We call these natural disasters — as if nature did this to us, unprovoked.

The danger is no longer the rattlesnake in the grass. The danger is the bare ground.

I know this in my body now — not just my brain. Standing in my parking lot, looking at the volunteers pushing through the gravel, I no longer see a mess. I see first responders. The plants that show up uninvited are the ones that know what the ground needs — to be covered, held, cooled, fed. They are doing the work we stopped doing when we picked up the leaf blower and the herbicide.

What would it take to shift not just individual behavior but the aesthetic itself — to make living, layered, uninvited-welcoming landscapes look like what they actually are: acts of intelligence? Acts of care?

The weeds already know what to do. The seeds are in the soil, waiting. Life is not asking permission. It is ready to come back the moment we stop yanking it out.

The question isn’t whether the land can recover. The question is whether we can — from the idea that control is the same thing as care. That bare is the same thing as clean.

The greatest threat we face isn’t what’s hiding in the weeds. It’s that we cut them all down.

What a Purple Black-Eyed Susan in Sequel Taught Me About Resilience.

A PURPLE PETAL ON AN ORDINARY TUESDAY

I was walking through Sequel — my living sculpture — when I noticed it. A cluster of Black-eyed Susans with buds gone deep, moody purple. My first reaction was that something was wrong. That reaction is learned. My instinct — the older, truer one — was curiosity. Just ask why. The more I looked, the more I questioned. The more I questioned, the more curious I became. I wanted to understand what was actually happening.

So I went down the rabbit hole.

Turns out, that purple color isn’t a disease. It’s not dying. It’s responding. When a Black-eyed Susan experiences stress — cold nights, too much rain, soil that can’t deliver the phosphorus it needs — it produces something called anthocyanin. A pigment. A protective chemical the plant makes just to cope.

The same pigment that colors blueberries. Red cabbage. Autumn maples.

The plant doesn’t collapse under pressure. It changes color.

And once the soil warms up, once the water drains, once the nutrients find their way through, it returns to green. It was never permanently altered. Just temporarily transformed.

Sequel keeps showing me things I didn’t plan for, didn’t design, couldn’t have predicted. A purple petal on an ordinary Tuesday is its own kind of gift.

In Defense of the Uninvited

I think about weeds.

Not in an anxious, what-do-I-do-about-them way. More in a — wait, who decided these don’t belong here? — kind of way.

I look at these plants. Really look at them. They showed up, figured it out, and started doing the work. Nobody planted them. Nobody watered them. They just arrived, broke through whatever burning hot surface was available, and got on with it. You have to admire their spirit and determination.

We call them invasive. We call them a problem. And sometimes, they are. I am a die hard native plant enthusiast — however I have been uncomfortable with this reflex to yank out anything that wasn’t there before — particularly in cities, especially on abandoned lots and cracked pavement and post-industrial nowhere — as if those places had some pristine original state worth protecting.

They don’t. And these plants seem to know it.

Here’s what I’ve come to believe: weeds are Earth’s first responders. When the ground is left bare, tilled, stripped, burned, flooded, or just forgotten — Mother Earth sends them in. They are biologically programmed for the site’s specific conditions, temperature, moisture, daylight — speed healers. They lower soil temperatures, protect the earth’s surface, feed what lives below ground, slow rainwater, reduce erosion, sequester carbon. They show up precisely when and where they are needed most. They do not waste energy or resources.

Here’s what I’ve also noticed: the spots where something is growing — even the stuff we’re not supposed to want — are almost always healthier than the spots where we’ve cleared everything out in the name of keeping it native or neatly manicured. Bare ground isn’t neutral. It’s just… empty. It’s dead. And dead empty doesn’t really serve life.

So I’ve changed how I work. When a volunteer appears somewhere I wasn’t expecting it, I no longer yank it out in a knee-jerk response. I stop — look — think. Why was it sent in? What is it doing? Is it holding soil? Feeding something? Offering shade, cover, a landing pad? I weigh what it’s providing before I decide what to do about it.

The real question isn’t where did this come from? It’s what is it doing now that it’s here?

I’m not saying throw out the whole idea of caring about native ecosystems. I am still a die hard native plant enthusiast. I’m saying the city lot behind a parking garage is probably not the hill to die on. And the plants that moved in there — the ones in these photos — they’re working with what exists, not what existed.

There’s something I respect about that.

Just maybe they know what they are doing.

Take daisy fleabane. Erigeron annuus. Dainty and a little scraggly when alone but stunning in a bunch, shows up in places nobody planted anything intentionally. Easy to walk past. Easy to dismiss.

Here is what it’s actually doing.

It’s a pioneer species — which means it arrives first, on bare and broken ground, before almost anything else is willing to try. Disturbed soil, compacted soil, the forgotten strip between a parking lot and a fence. Fleabane doesn’t care. It moves in, stabilizes the surface, and starts feeding things. Bees, wasps, flies, small butterflies. The Lynx Flower Moth uses it as a host plant. Goldfinches pick through the seeds come fall like they’ve been waiting all season.

Nobody sent it an invitation. It just knew where it was needed.

That’s the plant in this photo. Doing exactly what I described. Showing up, figuring it out, getting on with it.

Easy to pull. I say — easy to love.

Rooted in the Shallows

Pontederia cordata · An Obsession

I discovered pickerelweed while researching plants for the third and fourth panels of Unfolding Hope. The more I learned, the more I loved it.

Heart-shaped leaves. Purple and passionate, emerging from the dark water. On so many levels, it belonged in the work — in the story.

Pontederia cordata rises from muddy shallows and still backwaters. It stabilizes shorelines without fanfare. Its rhizomes thread quietly through sediment — whole colonies emerging from a single unseen root network. Pollinators adore it. Ducks eat their seeds. Its stalks are edible. It provides constantly and abundantly, and then it spreads — slowly, inevitably — into something more.

Working on Unfolding Hope, I became obsessed with this plant. In its rhizomes, I found symbolism — drips reaching through sediment, violet pooling like flower heads heavy with rain, cracked gold lines tracing the veins beneath a leaf.

Rooted in muck. Growing toward light. Feeding everything around it.

I wish everyone could obsess on pickerelweed. The world would be better.

The Same Root

Last weekend I attended De-documenting, an exhibition by artist Beatriz Bellorin at Box 13 — a body of work exploring immigration law and process that stayed with me long after I left. The work is timely in the obvious ways. But it surfaced something I didn’t expect: a connection I’ve been trying to articulate for some time, between how we relate to land and how we relate to one another.

That thread runs through a work-in-progress—my manifesto. What follows is one part of it.

The Same Root

There is a connection between how we treat land and how we treat each other that is not metaphorical. It is psychological. It is moral.

The impulse that produces the sterile lawn — the need for control, for legibility, for the elimination of what does not belong — is the same impulse that produces exclusionary politics, that walls off complexity, that treats diversity as threat rather than abundance.

Someone who has learned to build a living ecosystem understands viscerally that diversity is resilience. That the system is stronger for its complexity, not despite it. That what looks like chaos is intricate interdependence. That the thing you might want to remove is probably doing something essential you have not yet understood.

This is not a metaphor for immigration policy. It is the same cognitive and moral framework — the same quality of perception — applied to human communities.

Learning to tend a living garden does not automatically make someone a more compassionate citizen. But it trains the eye and the mind and perhaps the heart in ways that make compassion more available. It builds the capacity to sit with complexity without resolving it into something simpler and cleaner and less true.

This is an excerpt from my manifesto, Seeing in Systems. Read the full piece here. https://www.cindeeklement.com/new-page-2

Life Pouring Itself Into New Vessels,

This morning, dew-dipped feathers told a story older than grief. A cardinal neighbor who brightened my studio garden, a living work of art, had become sustenance—scattered crimson testament to a hawk’s hunger. I imagine four small lives depended on that transformation.

We call it loss, but energy never disappears. It shifts, transfers, animates new flight. The cardinal’s vibrant existence continues in powerful wings cutting through sky, in fledglings learning to hunt, and in the garden’s soil receiving what remains.

What seems like an ending is really regeneration, a beginning—life pouring itself into new vessels, forever becoming. The same brilliance that caught sunlight on red feathers now fuels another family’s survival. Nothing beautiful is ever truly gone.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Listening to the landscape.

Listening to the land or reading the land is a profound concept, rooted in the belief that nature communicates through signs and signals, much like a silent language. As a research based artist, I am inspired by the ecological lectures, where speakers often urge us to observe and understand what the land’s ecological role is in a given ecosystem, instead of what we would like it to be. This idea may initially seem unconventional, but it becomes clearer when you consider that Earth conveys messages through its responces to human interference with flora, fauna and weather.

In my experiences, I spend considerable time immersed in various landscapes, keenly observing and listening to what the land needs to thrive. One such experience was in “Sequel,” where I was attuned to the environment through the presence of a songbird, the buzzing of a bee, and the dancing of a butterfly, which all narrated the story of a living ecosystem. It was here that I encountered Sida rhombifolia, or arrowleaf sida. This plant, through its silent discourse, revealed much about the health and needs of the land.

Sida rhombifolia, though sometimes viewed as invasive, plays a significant role in ecological wellbeing. Its nature as invasive tells me the land needs plants that compete for light and maximize the Earth’s surface for photosynthesis. First, it serves as a vital nectar source for bees and butterflies, crucial pollinators that sustain plant diversity and ecosystem health. Second, its robust root system acts as an anchor, stabilizing soil and preventing erosion, especially in disturbed areas. Third, the plant's ability to thrive in arid conditions makes it a valuable component in water-limited environments, showcasing its drought tolerance. Lastly, while not a staple for all herbivores, it can provide forage in ecosystems where food sources may be scarce.

The interplay between flora such as Sida rhombifolia and the broader ecosystem illustrates how plants can indicate the needs of the land. By "listening" to such signs — be it through the plants, the sounds of insects, or the sway of grasses — we can better understand and respond to these needs, leading to healthier landscapes.

My personal journey in listening to the land is one I hope to share widely, with the aim of inspiring others to cultivate a deeper connection with nature. The target audience includes individuals interested in ecology, sustainability, and anyone eager to understand their environment more intimately. Through this awareness, I hope to foster a sense of responsibility and action — a call to observe, learn, and ultimately, coexist in harmony with the natural world. Recognizing that the Earth speaks to us, not through words, but through the rich tapestry of its living ecosystems, empowers us to be stewards of the land, ensuring its health and vitality for future generations.

Passionate for Pre-K

This post will serve as a journal for the work.

“My four-year-old daughter saw her first butterfly and was terrified.”

— Lawndale Art Center patron, 2022

This remark, shared during my Symbiosis artist talk at the Lawndale Art Center, stopped me cold. Imagining a generation untouched by the gentleness and fragility of wings — this is a sorrow too heavy to bear and do nothing.

Wildlife plays a vital role in early childhood brain development. At the very least, let each school day begin with a procession past living poetry: vines sculpted in fragrant blossoms of lemon honey, trembling with the promise of caterpillars, alive with the fragile ballet of butterflies. Each child deserves to develop in the company of nature’s intelligence.

With small acts of passion, this is within reach.

DESCRIPTION

Passionate for Pre–K is a living social sculpture installed in the fall of 2025 on the chain-link fences surrounding the playground at Clemente Martinez Elementary School in Houston, Texas. I sourced approximately 90 Texas native vines from my three living sculptures: Symbiosis at the Lawndale Art Center, Deeper Than That at a private residence, and Sequel, located next to my art studio in Acres Homes. Passion vines are highlighted in the mix. Sourcing from multiple locations supports the DNA diversity of the ecosystem. Hope Stone and landscape architect Caroline Craddock coordinated this installation with the school administration.

THE PROCESS

Taking tender 10-inch vine cuttings, using root stimulator and native leaf mold to propagate the plants. I selected 90 plants of different species to support a variety of wildlife and accommodate different growing seasons. The school community assisted with the planting in early October.

LONG-TERM GOAL

As ecological knowledge from Symbiosis has taken root in Deeper Than That, which has grown into Sequel, the hope is that Passionate for Pre–K will act as a catalyst. Annually, new tendrils — carefully propagated — will be gifted from Clemente Martinez Elementary School to neighboring schools, allowing the spirit of regeneration to spread from playground to playground, blossoming into a living legacy of wonder and natural intelligence.

PLANT LIST

May pop, Passiflora incarnata

Stinking passion vine, Passiflora foetida

Various proven passion vine hybrids

Trumpet honeysuckle, Lonicera sempervirens

Hairy clustervine, Jacquemontia tamnifolia

Muscadine grape, Vitis rotundifolia

American wisteria, Wisteria frutescens

Crossvine, Bignonia capreolata

Carolina jessamine, Gelsemium sempervirens

COLLABORATION

Passionate for Pre–K is a collaboration with Hope Stone, Caroline Craddock, and the Clemente Martinez Elementary School community. This would not exist without them, or without the incredible volunteers who gave their time and hands to this work.

NOVEMBER 2025 UPDATE — SETBACK & RESILIENCE

During phase two, a fifth-grade class carefully planted the remaining plants for the installation. The following week, the eager students returned to check on their plantings — and found devastation. A child left unattended in the play area had pulled up plant after plant, leaving only 7 of the original 90 still alive.

This is heartbreaking and frustrating — but it highlights exactly how important this project is. The lessons a garden teaches about social responsibility, care, and wonder are fundamental. I will not let one act derail it. Every child has the right to be inspired by nature.

I am propagating new cuttings. We plant again in the spring.

Special thanks to Caroline Craddock for capturing these moments in photographs.

—special thanks to Caroline Craddick for capturing these moments in photos.

One of the plants from the previous planting that was part of the vandalism. Notice the gulf Fritillary butterfly hiding in the shadow.

propagating a passion vine in water.

The Stinky Passion flower’s scientific name is Passiflora foetida. It is also known as Fetid Passion Flower, Love-in-a-mist, Wild Maracuja, and running pop.

It has sticky, feathery, leafy bracts that surround the flower and fruit. When an insect tries to eat the fruit, it gets caught in the sticky bracts and dies. The plant then secretes a digestive enzyme and absorbs the nutrients.

Generational Amnesia- Saving Humming birds

The truth about saving Hummingbirds

Hummingbird feeders are for human interaction. Hummingbirds do not need feeders or sugar water; they obtain their energy from native insects found on native plants.

Each baby hummingbird needs 9,000 insects over three weeks when they fledge. Typical nests have two eggs, and most birds lay twice a season. That means each mother for her babies needs 36000 insects. Plant a or an tree for insects. In addition they also need soft organic materials to build their nests such as spider webs and dandelions. Please let leave them for the hummingbirds.

Nature Nurtures: Nurture Nature

Sequel, 65oo sq. ft living sculpture, Summer Solstice 2024, Image by Jake Eshelman

image by Wolf Mac Lean

image by Jake Eshelman

Generational Amnesia and Water given the 7/4/2025 floods

Water is composed of a multitude of living organisms, each a microscopic being. Having spent most of my life in the vast desert of West Texas, I've always yearned for a connection with water and the beauty of plant life. Water gardening and underwater videoing have become my pastimes, offering pleasure, creativity, peace, and calm. I spent hours in our pond during covid.

However, I am concerned for our young humans as they navigate an environment increasingly marked by extreme weather patterns. I worry that they will grow to fear water, especially in the wake of violent floods that seem to be happening more frequently.

When reflecting on our relationship with water, it's hard not to see how humanity's approach has been somewhat harsh. I initially wrote violent, but AI suggested I use the word harsh, so I toned it down.

We often treat this vital resource as something to be controlled, redirecting it into linear channels and concrete ditches or trapping it in reservoirs and basins filled with chemical inputs. With hindsight how will future generations describe our treatment of water, our relationship with water? Thinking about it tears me up.

This treatment raises questions for me:

Are these extreme weather events, these overwhelming floods, a response to our attempts to dominate and contain water rather than nurture a natural flow? I believe it is.

Perhaps if we can rebuild our connection with water and all the microorganisms that make it up—by rebuilding landscapes that promote it to move slowly and freely, spread out, and soak into the earth-we might mitigate these violent, I mean, harsh events. Would fostering this gentler relationship with water lead to a more harmonious existence for us and water's living beings?

Lastly, I believe it’s important to recognize the value of our relationship with water, as it plays a crucial role in cooling the planet. In fact, about 90% of the planet's cooling comes from water. By fostering a deeper connection to this essential resource, we can better appreciate its impact and work towards preserving it for future generations and our own.

Re-greening a Dryland Watershed

https://www.usgs.gov/media/videos/re-greening-dryland-watershed

Generational Amnesia and Regeneration.

My husband Curtis and I drove to Christoval, Texas for a public hummingbird tagging event. I had been to a private tagging before, but this one was different. The public was invited in. Children were there.

Biologists carefully capture tiny hummingbirds to collect vital information — sex, age, length, weight. After gathering the data, a skilled volunteer carefully cradles each delicate bird in the palm of an observer’s hand.

The tiny creature briefly pauses. You hold your breath. You feel an almost mechanical vibration, like a toy stuck in the “on” position — the rhythm of its heartbeat. Then, in an instant, it is back into the wild.

It wasn’t until I looked at my photos afterward that I saw it — a trusted volunteer placing the bird in a child’s hand. The transfer of knowledge, right there in the frame. A tiny beating heart. A child holding their breath.

That moment — the exchange of a tiny life from seasoned hands to smooth palms — is a living metaphor for what it means to nurture the passing of knowledge and care across generations. It is the story of regeneration.

This is what generational amnesia looks like in reverse.

Generational amnesia — also called shifting baseline syndrome — describes how each generation views the environment they inherit as the normal standard, even if it is significantly more degraded than that of previous generations. We absorb the world we are born into. We mistake it for the world as it is.

In the 1980s in Houston, our garden was filled with hummingbirds. Their vibrant presence shaped our daily conversations, our sense of place, our sense of wonder. They were part of our love story. Curtis proposed and hummingbirds were there. We miss them.

Today’s children in Houston have likely never seen one in a garden. They have no baseline for what’s missing. And that is the whole loss — not just the hummingbirds, but the memory of them.

Breaking this cycle requires hands willing to reach out and moments prepared to receive. It demands nurturing curiosity, empathy, and attention in children and adults alike. It calls for the deliberate passing on of more than just facts — but also the emotions and experiences that bind us to the world beyond ourselves.

The hummingbird’s pause in the palm of a stranger’s hand is brief. But it is enough. This is how we pass down the endangered knowledge of our natural history now — not around a campfire, not through a grandmother’s photo album, but in a field in Christoval, Texas, with a tiny beating heart in your hand and a trusted volunteer saying: this existed. Pay attention

.

The weight of truth

The concept of the “weight of truth” emphasizes the essential role honesty plays in our society and the significant pressures that accompany it. This raises an important question: when does the acknowledgment of new scientific discoveries and truths, particularly those overlooked by community leaders, become an ethical or even a justice issue?

In the fields of soil science and environmental studies, we are witnessing the alarming effects of extreme weather patterns, land subsidence, and the loss of biodiversity. Urban policies shaped by city councils, homeowners associations, and societal norms often worsen these challenges. The focus has shifted from environmentally harmful practices, such as maintaining monocultures of non-native grasses using gas-powered tools—which contribute to air and water pollution and the use of toxic chemicals—to a more regenerative approach.

These decisions not only have profound implications for our health, particularly for children who are at an increased risk for cancer, but they also endanger the fragile wildlife biodiversity that is crucial for the planet’s well-being.

Once again, I ask: when does the recognition of new ecological truths begin to outweigh the legacy of colonial landscapes? It is time that our leaders and institutions bear the weight of truth. Let’s encourage and support them. I'm thinking about the situation in Houston, where our waters drain into the Gulf of Mexico. Homeowners are required to OBTAIN A PERMIT to AVOID using cancer-causing chemicals, and reducing lawn mowing which significantly decrease emissions—up to eleven times more than those produced by a new car. This approach supports biodiversity, helps maintain the water table, and prevents land subsidence. Shouldn’t homeowners who want to use chemicals to maintain their perfect lawns and gas-emitting machinery be required to have a permit?

Nut grass in Sequel

Transforming a turf grass landscape into a thriving ecosystem is a rewarding journey that requires time and patience. I'm using a gradual approach with limited resources and have made progress by installing various plants, adding fallen leaves, and incorporating leaf mold compost. However, many areas remain bare, and the compacted clay soil presents challenges.

I discovered a non-native nut grass while planting White-veined Dutchman’s pipevine. Initially dismissed as a weed, I chose to explore the potential benefits of this volunteer plant. Nut grass has an extensive root network that enhances soil quality and prevents erosion. Its antioxidative properties protect surrounding plants and soils, and its salinity tolerance helps maintain ecological balance.

I will embrace nut grass for its role in protecting the soil, retaining water, and supporting the Dutchman’s pipevine, the host plant for the blue swallowtail.

Partridge pea spoke to me.

This morning, checking on the trough pond, I noticed the partridge pea and crouched near her. A column of ants patrolled her leaves while butterflies worked her yellow flowers above them. Nobody is performing for anyone. It is just the world, going about its business, in a patch of ground that supports life—I thought I was tending.

The partridge pea has volunteered in masses in the dappled shade of Sequel — slender but sturdy, unassuming, and entirely uninvited. This plant doesn’t just survive; it volunteers enthusiastically in disturbed spaces—roadsides, open fields, and now Sequel—acting as a pioneer species that signifies restoration and new beginnings. As a legume, it fixes atmospheric nitrogen, quietly enriching the soil and supporting the growth of other plants nearby. Its roots hold the earth together, reducing erosion, while its bright yellow flowers serve as a beacon to pollinators—bees, butterflies, the whole negotiation.

What I find most fascinating are the extrafloral nectaries—tiny glands on the leaf petioles that secrete nectar, attracting ants and predatory insects. These become the plant’s guardians, defending it from herbivores in a mutualistic dance that has nothing to do with me and everything to do with a language older than gardens.

Watching Sequel evolve has been enlightening. Initially sparse or disturbed areas are beginning to spring forth life—the soil stabilizes, pollinators return. It is a quiet transformation that feels both hopeful, necessary, and a little desperate.

Integrating art into ecological restoration has not been without its challenges. Balancing the needs of living, growing plants with the permanence and intent of conceptual art forces me to think fluidly and adaptively—to let the natural systems shape the art as much as the art shapes the garden.

Sequel: embracing urban rewilding and humming birds

30” X 44” watercolor monotype.

Exploring the beauty and artistry of urban rewilding is a central theme in my current living sculpture installation, Sequel. A key design element of Sequel is the mutual respect and reciprocity that value nature and all its inhabitants.

True beauty is derived from a respect for the environment and an understanding that humans are part of a larger, interconnected web of life which is not determined by the manicured and organized plantings on the site.

Part of my daily art practices is noticing the small changes as the seasons unfold. As volunteer plants rise above the ground I don’t reach for a herbicide I research the plant through multiple sources. Then I search for how the plant supports the Gulf Coast Ecosystem and the needs of permanent and migrating wildlife.

With longer days we humans are starting to clean up our outdoor spaces. By traditional values an unsightly spider web on the wall would be swept away. Dandelions and other tall skinny volunteer plants would be poisoned providing neatly groomed manicured lawns.

In Sequel I consider the longer days of spring summon the migrating humming birds and they too have needs that might surprise you. Over the years through research I've discovered that these tiny avian wonders greatly benefit from less manicured environments within our cities. Unfortunately, hummingbirds, which typically grace our urban areas from mid-March to mid-May, are on the decline. However, by allowing our urban landscapes to remain a bit "messy" and imperfect, we can support their numbers.
The benefits hummingbirds gain from such environments are substantial. As they prepare for nesting, they require unique materials for constructing their nests—materials often found only in less controlled, more natural settings. I find it fascinating how hummingbirds gather spider silk, dandelion puffs, thistle down, lichens, and moss. These elements help them create nests that are functional and aesthetically exemplify nature's perfect balance. These materials provide the necessary strength and structure for nest building, a critical aspect of their survival.

I believe buzzing hummingbirds swooping in and out of Sequel would be an incredibly beautiful addition to the installation. To support hummingbirds I've come to realize there are several practical actions we can all take as urban residents:

1. Allow dandelions and thistles to grow naturally. By avoiding mowing or spraying herbicides on them, we're providing the soft materials hummingbirds need for their nests.

2. Resist the urge to sweep away spider webs. Instead, let's recognize these webs as vital resources for nest building.

3. Appreciate the natural beauty of lichens and mossesand air pkants. Removing them disrupts their essential role in the ecological landscape that hummingbirds depend on.

My journey as an eco-artist has deepened my personal connection to hummingbirds, revealing how these incredible creatures can add magic to our backyards, fostering a sense of wonder and connection to the natural world. By recognizing and valuing seemingly minor aspects of urban nature—like dandelions, spider webs, lichens, and moss—we can significantly contribute to the survival and flourishing of hummingbirds. This approach not only aids these delicate creatures but also highlights the intricate balance and resilience inherent in nature.

In balancing the aesthetics of urban landscapes with the ecological needs of hummingbirds, I envision cities that embrace natural elements rather than suppress them. This perspective encourages a harmonious coexistence between urban development and the ecological needs of wildlife, creating urban environments that are not only visually appealing but also ecologically supportive. The presence of hummingbirds in such settings becomes a testament to nature's resilience and the potential for urban spaces to contribute positively to biodiversity

La Mancha's Sequel: A Mindful, Climate-Smart Urban Landscape. Redseed Plantains

January 16, 2025
Yesterday, It was raining, and Sequel was quiet and soaking in delightly rainwater. It was a great time to look closely; I was struck by the vibrant community of Redseed plantains flourishing beneath the canopy of trees. Under trees is usually an area where plants struggle to find their footing. However, This Redseed, who I am more familiar with amidst neglected landscapes and cracked sidewalks, bursts with life around these trees. It's as though the earth itself has decided to paint a masterpiece of resilience and beauty with these tiny, tenacious greens. The sight is a comfort, a reminder of nature's ability to reclaim and regenerate.

Here it is in early January. We have had one cold spell and expect another next week. The plantain leaves measure four inches tall; their bright green broad leaves blanket the area like you might expect in the spring. They mimic a verdant duvet that, for now, remains unassuming but undeniably beautiful.

To an unsuspecting eye, these plants may seem inconsequential. Yet, with a bit of research, I've discovered their incredible significance. They are the unsung heroes, supporting a diverse array of wildlife. The Redseed plantain is more than just foliage; it offers sustenance to bobwhite quail, Rio Grande wild turkeys, white-tailed deer, cattle, and the Texas tortoise. The seeds serve as nourishment for game birds like scaled quail, bobwhite quail, and mourning doves. These plants are also invaluable to insects, providing habitat and sustenance to many, including the stunning Buckeye butterflies that graced this space on January 3rd.

This living tapestry serves another crucial purpose in the conservation of our environment. Redseed plantain is a remarkable ally in our efforts to combat erosion. Its fibrous roots delve deep into the earth, breaking through compacted soil, stabilizing it, and helping to restore its vitality. This is nature’s foundation: a grassroots effort exemplified by these short tap roots, acting as first responders in reviving hardened ground.

The site I am cultivating, La Mancha's Sequel: A Mindful, Climate-Smart Urban Landscape, is meant to be a testament to our potential for harmonious coexistence with nature. The project spans 7,500 square feet, a social sculpture intended to demonstrate how thoughtful decisionsn making interwoven with nature can create regenerative environments. As I chronicle the daily developments here, each entry becomes a dialogue between myself and the land, a continuous exchange that shapes both the space and my understanding of it.

Observing the Redseed plantains, thriving against the odds, I am filled with a deep sense of reverence and wonder. They remind me that even the most unassuming forces can make a profound impact. In this interplay of plant and purpose, I find inspiration for what La Mancha's Sequel can become—a living sculpture that speaks to the possibilities of urban landscapes, rich with life, responsive to climate, a mindful corner of the world where nature and humanity flourish side by side.

Pink spotted Hawkmoth cacoon overwintering in the roots.

Redseed roots with a sprig of horseherb and the cacoon.

Dreaming of Melting Mummies.

When you understand the natural systems that regenerate our planet, you understand that snow is both an end and a beginning. Tobi, my Labrador, and I could not wait to check on our plant beings in “Deeper than that” this snow-covered morning. Scanning the installation there are bushy snow puddles of Butter daisies and Bluemist flowers with tiny bursts of color saved only for those who care to listen closely.

Layered in the dust of the morning’s snow the blanket flower draws us closest. The fiery blooms not reaching for the sun but in a motherly huddle. I am grateful that I don’t need to spend money, time, or energy on covering native plants that are genetically designed to thrive in extreme temperatures and weather conditions. The exposed plants create a subtle palette of earth tones rarely seen in urban landscapes, showcasing the various stages of life and regeneration that these resilient species represent. When my eyes focus on the details, hidden colors are revealed, and my brain receives a surge of oxytocin. I understand what hope feels like. As l scan down the street I see homes lined not in winters pallets but boxshrubs wrapped like mummies. For a moment I invision those mummies milting into a street lined with nature’s gentle winter lessons. I image things to inspire children to explore and capture their imagination.

In the quiet of the snow, I reflect on its form—a white-covered blanket—and its relationship with a planet that naturally regenerates for future generations. I consider how the plants that freeze back or remain in place become energy sources and habitats, supporting the foundation of the planet’s food network. It warms my heart to think about how this snow-covered landscape protects the soil life that nourishes roots and promotes spring growth.

There are many lessons that humans can learn from a garden that embraces seasons, regenerates life and provides for a diversity of beings. Imagine how different the world would be if every child’s first classroom was a garden, or if all politicians had to maintain a healthy garden without the use of chemical inputs for four years before they could hold office. They would gain insights into networking and learn about symbiotic relationships in real life.

Lifeblood

Lifeblood

5.75 “ X 6” X 7”

bronze

Image by Jake Eshelman

Lifeblood, Explores of the profound connection between humans and nature, conveyed through the visual metaphor of a root naturally occurring in the shape akin to the human heart. This piece is part of a larger body of work titled "Subterranean Secrets," which delves into the theme of roots. My work aims to invoke reflection on the unseen yet vital networks that sustain both plants and humans. By casting roots directly in bronze, I emphasize their resilience and permanence, highlighting the enduring significance of these natural systems.

The inspiration for "Lifeblood" arose from my studies on regenerative agriculture, focusing on the indispensable role roots play in countering extreme weather. My exploration into the fascinating world of roots began in 2017, unveiling striking visual similarities between roots and the human heart. These parallels reveal both biological and conceptual truths, as roots and the heart function as lifelines, circulating essential nutrients that sustain life.

Through "Lifeblood," I invite an examination of the often-overlooked relationships between human existence and the natural world. The act of casting these roots in bronze imparts permanence to these otherwise ephemeral forms, challenging perceptions of how we value the natural systems surrounding us. This sculpture contributes to the ongoing dialogue about our environment by emphasizing our dependence on nature and reinforcing the deep interconnection between humanity and the natural world.

In the end, "Lifeblood" serves as a call to acknowledge and appreciate the hidden yet crucial systems that support life. I believe that by understanding and valuing these networks, we can cultivate a deeper awareness of our roles within the broader ecological system, sparking actions to preserve and nurture the natural environment essential to human existence.

La Mancha’s Sequel: A Mindful, Climate-Smart Urban Landscape.

January 14th

Today, as I immerse myself deeper into the world of ecological restoration and sustainability, I find myself fueled by an overwhelming sense of purpose. My Climate-Smart Urban Landscape project has truly become a labor of love, growing more meaningful with every leaf gathered. As I collect bags of native Oak leaves from curbs, I'm not just gathering leaves—I'm cradling potential life, the eggs, pupae, larvae, and chrysalises that might be nestled within. Astonishingly, Oak trees are home to over 900 species of caterpillars. These caterpillars serve as a crucial food source for many songbirds and their young across North America. By saving these leaves, I am inadvertently contributing to the survival of these beautiful creatures.

The interconnected benefits of these efforts are profound. First, by fostering biodiversity, I help ensure diverse species can thrive. Second, as the leaves decompose, they transform into a rich, nourishing substance that revitalizes our depleted soil, forming the very backbone of our food network. Third, these leaves provide essential shelter from harsh weather, acting as a protective barrier against heavy rains and cold temperatures and safeguarding the tiny creatures that rely on them to survive.

My inspiration stems from personal experiences and a deep sense of environmental stewardship. Through "La Mancha’s Sequel," my urban landscape project, I aspire to blend art, architecture, and environmental literature in a way that leaves a meaningful impact. My goal is to transform the local community here in Houston and ignite a larger appreciation for ecological interconnectedness. By sharing this journey, I hope to inspire others to commit to regenerative practices within urban environments.

With every leaf collected and every small step taken, I am moving toward a more harmonious world. This journey reminds me that each of us holds the power to make a difference in our neighborhoods, communities, and beyond. Together, we can create a future where sustainability and biodiversity thrive hand in hand.

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