Nature’s Clock
There are certain aspects of nature that we all take for granted. We are all accustomed to the sun rising every day and setting at the end of that day. We have systematized the celestial processes so that we publish reports on when sunrise and sunset will occur. We do the same thing when it comes to the moon and the cycles of the moon and the tides along with it. Seasons are a little different. They start and end based on the location on the planet along with the axis tilt of the earth and a whole array of other factors. Out here on this San Diego hilltop, the seasons seem to blend into a continuum more than in the other places I have lived over my life. There is not the sharp contrast one gets in New England, where the fall foliage may come on better or worse based on precipitation and temperature, but still happens mostly within a week or two of the same time each year. And this is not Miami, where it’s summer year round, give or take 10 degrees. I feel like we have four seasons here, they are simply less extreme and tend to blend somewhat without definition into one another.
One of my prize garden plantings is a specimen-quality Queensland Bottle Tree or Boabab that sits between my house and patio on the northeast corner. It is, supposedly, the largest of these in North America, according to an arborist I hired to help me with my trees and the USDA “Big Tree” specialist he brought over. It is clearly an attention getter whenever people come to view my gardens. From the first year I lived here full-time, I noticed that the tree sheds its leaves annually but always as a slightly different time. One year it lost its leaves in March and this year, for example, it is losing its leaves in July. I’m not sure what causes this variation. Perhaps it’s about the temperature or perhaps the humidity and rainfall, but for whatever reason it keeps its own seasonal schedule. When most deciduous trees lose their leaves, they tend to hibernate for several months as though to regain their strength for the push of spring when the weather improves. This bottle tree will start budding its new leaves pretty much at the same time that it’s losing its leaves. Right now, if you looked at it that tree, you would see the lower third of the tree with drying leaves clinging to its branches, dropping consistently each day, all while the upper third of the tree is already sprouting new leaves. I can’t imagine how this magnificent tree decides when and how to change out its leaves, but it’s clearly a case of nature making up its own mind about its seasonality.
That bottle tree has been very noticeable to me as we have been using our patio a good deal for our summertime gatherings, and I feel as though I have to rake leaves every few days. But while the uncertainty of nature is on display on the patio, what is really catching my eye is what’s going on on the northwest and southeast corners of my property. I’ve mentioned before that I have many large blue agave all across my property. When I first moved here, I would say that the smaller Agave Attenuatas outnumbered the blue agave quite a bit. The blue agave can grow much bigger and they were fewer and further between. But I’ve made a concerted effort to transplant the pups that spin out at the base of these blue agaves, and I now have a collection of perhaps 300 or more all around the property. There are several of these magnificent plants that have been here for the full 12 years I’ve owned this property. The colloquial name for these agave is Century Plant, presumably because they live a long life (though actually nowhere near 100 years). As I have previously mentioned, the defining feature of these agave is that they bloom only once before they die. And what a magnificent bloom they have, especially the blue agave. Because they grow so large, the stalk they send up with seeds is as big as any tree I have on the property. These stalks can be 12 inches thick and rise as much as 30 feet. Every year, I wonder when the largest of my blue agaves will decide that it’s time to send up it’s seed stalk. I hate to lose some of these large agaves because they can grow to 12 or 15 feet across and they’re both impressive in their display, but also leave quite a gap in the landscape when they decide to die.
I’ve previously discussed a book that I read about the secret life of trees and how they communicate with one another through their root system, helped by fungi. It’s interesting to think of trees talking to one another. We even went to go see something called Pando in Southern Utah, which is 140+ acre living stand of aspen trees that are supposedly the largest and oldest organism in the world, all connected through its root system. Meanwhile one of the things about succulents like agave is that they have fairly shallow root systems. They tend to store their water not in their roots, but in their stems and leaves. That seems to work well in this climate since succulents thrive. However, I’ve just noticed, a strange phenomenon. I have two giant blue agaves at completely opposite ends of my property that have decided, in an almost synchronized manner, to shoot up their death spiral stems at exactly the same time. I cannot, for the life of me, understand this.
Two Christmases ago we had perhaps 80 Agave Attenuatas decide that they would send up their serpentine end-of-life seed stems. This created a whimsical seasonal setting for our Christmas display. We put red balls on the ends of each serpentine and created a Whoville-like environment for the season. Many of our neighbors commented about it and it brought us much pleasure. It never occurred to me to wonder about the synchronicity of the display because it seemed consistent with the season. But this July display by my two blue giant agave seems more strange because it somehow doesn’t seem like the right season for this seed stem display. It’s as though these two agave simply knew that it was time to do what they’re doing like two twins living at opposite ends of the Earth, knowing that it’s time to take their last breath. It’s very strange because they are of similar size and they look like twin plants with their very prominent 25-foot stems.
This all reminds me that nature has its own clock, and that the ways of nature can only be partially understood by man. As I listen to the craziness of this mornings news reports about the attempted assassination of Donald Trump, the impending Republican national convention, and it’s attempts to put out a platform to mollify the public concerns about project 2025, and the news that Judge Cannon has dismissed the Trump documents case, I wonder anew about the ways of nature. Has the universe decided that it’s time to throw man curveball? Are we at a moment in history, where nature is choosing to remind us that as enlightened as we, as a species, tend to think of ourselves, we are not so different from the plants. We like to think we have free will and that we control our own destiny, but I, for one, am getting the feeling that nature wants to take its course and that it’s clock is saying that we have had our time and our time is near its end. As I write those words, I realize that that may be the most pessimistic thought I have ever had. But then I look out at my blue agave and think that as much as I feel I will miss them when they are gone, the blue agave will survive. Nature’s clock will fill in for them and in another year or two these two synchronized agave will be long forgotten. With a sigh, I will move on to whatever is next on my increasingly insignificant agenda.