position:gardener

  • The Telegarden
    https://www.futilitycloset.com/2018/08/09/the-telegarden

    In 1995, artist Ken Goldberg fitted a $40,000 robot arm with a webcam and mounted it in a trough so that “virtual gardeners” from anywhere in the world could plant seeds and water them. After every hundred hits they were given the option to plant more seeds.

    Organizers found that the users tended to discuss nature, technology, and interpersonal connections, with virtually no abusive language. They would ask one another to water their plants during vacations and would sometimes plant seeds “strategically” in order to be near one another. The community shared their sorrow at the death of one gardener, and a couple got engaged.

  • How letting Mother Nature reclaim prime farmland produced results | Daily Mail Online
    http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-5640191/How-letting-Mother-Nature-reclaim-prime-farmland-produced-breathtaking-

    With breathtaking speed, thickets of 3ft-high thistles were advancing over the ground, engulfing acre after acre. It was like the Day Of The Triffids. Every day, as my husband Charlie and I walked over what had once been arable fields on our family farm, we could barely believe what we were seeing.

    Not for nothing is this creeping weed known as the ‘cursed thistle’ — it sends out deep tap-roots and, as any gardener knows, it’s almost impossible to dig out. In our case, however, using weedkiller was out of the question.

    Several years into a pioneering project to ‘rewild’ the land, we were no longer willing to use the pesticides, fungicides and artificial fertilisers that had once seemed so essential.

    #agriculture #élevage

  • McLibel: full documentary
    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V58kK4r26yk

    Hello. This is the official, full-length (81 min) version of our 2005 documentary, McLibel. This film was made completely independently (no studio/broadcaster backing) over four long years. We’re a tiny independent film company always struggling to make ends meet, so if you watch for free here, please make a donation - http://spannerfilms.net/donate - and also sign up to our email list: http://www.spannerfilms.net/mailing_list . Thanks v much and enjoy the film, Franny & Lizzie from Spanner Films
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    The first documentary from renowned director Franny Armstrong (The Age of Stupid, Drowned Out), McLibel tells the true story of two ordinary people who battle McDonald’s in what became known as “the biggest corporate PR disaster in history” (Channel 4 News). The Seattle Times called the film an “irresistible David and Goliath tale... you can’t help but cheer along” and the Sydney Morning Herald described it as “an often-hilarious exposé of big business arrogance... and an extraordinary example of independent filmmaking”.

    McDonald’s often used the English libel laws to suppress criticism. Major media organisations like the BBC, Channel 4 and The Sun had backed down in the face of their legal threats. But then they sue single father Dave Morris (41) and gardener Helen Steel (34). In what became England’s longest-ever trial, the “McLibel Two” represent themselves for three and a half years in court against McDonald’s £10 million legal team. Every aspect of the corporation’s business is cross-examined, from junk food and McJobs, to animal cruelty, environmental damage and advertising to children.

    McDonald’s try every trick in the book against the pair, including legal manoeuvres, secret settlement negotiations, a visit from Ronald McDonald and even spies. Seven years later, in February 2005, the marathon legal battle finally concludes at the European Court of Human Rights - will the result take everyone by surprise?

    Filmed over ten years, with courtroom reconstructions directed by Ken Loach, McLibel features the first interview with a McDonald’s spy, as well as in-depth contributions from Eric Schlosser (Fast Food Nation) and Keir Starmer (then Helen and Dave’s pro bono lawyer, now the UK’s Director of Public Prosecutions).

    The McLibel trial became a cause-celebre in the UK, resulting in changes both to UK law and to McDonald’s itself. It is often cited as influencing works which followed, including Fast Food Nation, Jamie’s School Dinners and Super Size Me. The producers estimate that more than 26 million people have seen McLibel on TV, cinema, DVD and at local screenings worldwide.
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    More about the film: http://www.spannerfilms.net/films/mclibel

  • Un texte un peu ancien, et en anglais, mais qui ne semble pas avoir été publié sur SeenThis, de #Chimamanda_Adichie sur la #dépression et le déni qu’on en fait, pour mon retour sur ST après deux semaines de vacances :

    Mornings are dark, and I lie in bed, wrapped in fatigue. I cry often…
    Chimamanda Adichie, The Guardian, le 1er février 2015
    http://www.mymindsnaps.com/chimamanda-adichies-struggle-with-depression

    Sometimes it begins with a pimple. A large shiny spot appears on my forehead. Or it begins with a feeling of heaviness, and I long to wear only loose-fitting clothes. Then my mood plunges, my lower back aches, my insides turn liquid. Stomach cramps come in spasms so painful I sometimes cry out. I lose interest in the things I care about. My family becomes unbearable, my friends become strangers with dark intentions, and cashiers and waiters seem unforgivably rude. A furious, righteous paranoia shrouds me: every human being with whom I interact is wrong, either insensitive or ill-willed. I eat mounds of food – I crave greasy stews and fried yams and dense chocolate truffles – or I have no appetite at all, both unusual for a careful, picky eater. My breasts are swollen and taut. Because they hurt, I wear my softest bras – “tender” seems a wrong word for the sharp discomfort. Sometimes they horrify me, so suddenly round, as though from science fiction, and sometimes their round perkiness pleases my vanity. At night, I lie sleepless, drenched in strange sweat; I can touch the wetness on my skin.

    I am sitting in a doctor’s office in Maryland and reciting these symptoms. On the wall of the bright room, there is a diagram of a lean female, her ovaries and uterus illustrated in curling lines; it reminds me of old pictures of Eve in the garden with Adam. The doctor is a kind and blunt woman, bespectacled, but reading over her lenses the forms I have filled out. When she first asks why I have come to see her, I say, “Because my family thinks I need help.” Her reply is, “You must agree with them or you wouldn’t be here.” Later, it will strike me that this is a quality I admire most in women: a blunt kindness, a kind bluntness.

    When she asks questions, I embellish my answers with careful detail – the bigger-sized bra I wear for a few days, the old frost-bitten ice cream I eat because I will eat anything. I make sure to link everything to my monthly cycle, to repeat that I always feel better when my period starts. I make fun of my irritability: everyone I meet is annoying until I suddenly realise that I am the only constant and the problem has to be me! It is, I tell her, as though a strangeness swoops down on me every month, better on some and worse on others. Nothing I say is untrue. But there are things I leave out. I am silent about the other strangeness that comes when it will and flattens my soul.

    “It sounds like you have premenstrual dysphoric disorder,” she says.

    It is what I want to hear. I am grateful because she has given me a name I find tolerable, an explanation I can hide behind: my body is a vat of capricious hormones and I am at their mercy.

    But the doctor is not done. Her eyes are still and certain as she says, “But the more important thing is that you have underlying depression.” She speaks quietly, and I feel the room hold its breath. She speaks as if she knows that I already know this.

    In truth, I am sitting opposite her in this examining room because my family is worried about the days and weeks when I am, as they say, “not myself”. For a long time, I have told them that I just happen to have hormonal issues, victim to those incomplete tortures that Nature saves for femaleness. “It can’t be just hormonal,” they say. “It just can’t.” Mine is a family full of sensible scientists – a statistician father, an engineer brother, a doctor sister. I am the different one, the one for whom books always were magical things. I have been writing stories since I was a child; I left medical school because I was writing poems in biology class. When my family says it is “not just hormonal”, I suspect they are saying that this malaise that makes me “not myself” has something to do with my being a writer.

    Now, the doctor asks me, “What kind of writing do you do?”

    I tell her I write fiction.

    “There is a high incidence of depression in creative people,” she says.

    I remember a writers’ conference I attended in Maine one summer years ago, before my first novel was published. I liked the other writers, and we sat in the sun and drank cranberry juice and talked about stories. But a few days in, I felt that other strangeness creeping up on me, almost suffocating me. I drew away from my new circle of friends. One of them finally cornered me in the dormitory and asked, “You’re depressive, aren’t you?” In his eyes and his voice was something like admiration, because he believed that there is, in a twisted way, a certain literary glamour in depression. He tells me that Ernest Hemingway had depression. Virginia Woolf and Winston Churchill had depression. Graham Greene had depression. Oh, and it wasn’t just writers. Did I know Van Gogh had wandered into the field he was painting and shot himself? I remember feeling enraged, wanting to tell him that depression has no grandeur, it is opaque, it wastes too much and nurtures too little. But to say so would be to agree that I indeed had depression. I said nothing. I did not have depression. I did not want to have depression.

    And now, in the doctor’s office, I want to resist. I want to say, no thank you, I’ll take only premenstrual dysphoric disorder please. It fits elegantly in my arsenal of feminism after all, this severe form of premenstrual syndrome, suffered by only 3% of women, and with no known treatment, only different suggestions for management. It gives me a new language. I can help other women who grew up as I did in Nigeria, where nobody told us girls why we sometimes felt bloated and moody. If we ever talked about what happened to our bodies, then it was behind closed doors, away from the boys and men, in tones muted with abashment. Aunts and mothers and sisters, a band of females surrounded in mystery, the older whispering to the younger about what periods meant: staying away from boys, washing yourself well. They spoke in stilted sentences, gestured vaguely, gave no details. Even then I felt resentful to have to feel shame about what was natural. And now here I was, burnished with a new language to prod and push at this damaging silence.

    But depression is different. To accept that I have it is to be reduced to a common cliché: I become yet another writer who has depression. To accept that I have it is to give up the uniqueness of my own experience, the way I start, in the middle of breathing, to sense on the margins the threat of emptiness. Time blurs. Days pass in a fog. It is morning and then suddenly it is evening and there is nothing in between. I am frightened of contemplating time itself: the thought of tomorrow and the day after tomorrow, the endless emptiness of time. I long to sleep and forget. Yet I am afraid of waking up, in terror of a new day. Mornings are dark, and I lie in bed, wrapped in fatigue. I cry often. My crying puzzles me, surprises me, because there is no cause. I open a book but the words form no meaning. Writing is impossible. My limbs are heavy, my brain is slow. Everything requires effort. To consider eating, showering, talking brings to me a great and listless fatigue. Why bother? What’s the point of it all? And why, by the way, are we here? What is it I know of myself? I mourn the days that have passed, the wasted days, and yet more days are wasted.

    The doctor calls these symptoms but they do not feel like symptoms. They feel like personal failures, like defects. I am normally full of mischievous humour, full of passion, whether in joy or in rage, capable of an active, crackling energy, quick to respond and rebuke, but with this strangeness, I do not even remember what it means to feel. My mind is in mute. I normally like people, I am deeply curious about the lives of others, but with this strangeness comes misanthropy. A cold misanthropy. I am normally the nurturer, worrying about everyone I love, but suddenly I am detached. It frightens me, this sense of slipping out of my normal self. It cannot be an illness. It feels like a metaphysical failure, which I cannot explain but for which I am still responsible.

    There is an overwhelming reluctance to move. A stolidness of spirit. I want to stay, to be, and if I must then only small movements are bearable. I switch off my phone, draw the shades, burrow in the dim stillness. I shy away from light and from love, and I am ashamed of this. I feel guilty about what I feel. I am unworthy of the people who care about me. I stew in self-recrimination. I am alone. Stop it, I say to myself. What is wrong with you? But I don’t know how to stop it. I feel as if I am asking myself to return a stolen good that I have not in fact stolen.

    In some of my family and friends, I sense confusion, and sometimes, suspicion. I am known to nurse a number of small eccentricities, and perhaps this is one. I avoid them, partly not to burden them with what I do not understand, and partly to shield myself from their bewilderment, while all the time, a terrible guilt chews me whole. I hear their unasked question: Why can’t she just snap out of it? There is, in their reactions, an undertone of “choice”. I might not choose to be this way, but I can choose not to be this way. I understand their thinking because I, too, often think like them. Is this self-indulgence? Surely it cannot be so crippling if I am sentient enough to question it? Does the market woman in Nsukka have depression? When I cannot get out of bed in the morning, would she be able to, since she earns her living day by day?

    The doctor says, about the high incidence of depression in creative people, “We don’t know why that is.” Her tone is flat, matter-of-fact, and I am grateful that it is free of fascination.

    “Do you think anybody else in your family might have depression?” she asks.

    Nobody else does. I tell her, a little defensively, about growing up in Nsukka, the small university campus, the tree-lined streets where I rode my bicycle. It is as if I want to exculpate my past. My childhood was happy. My family was close-knit. I was voted most popular girl in secondary school.

    Yet I have memories of slow empty days, of melancholy silence, of perplexed people asking what was wrong, and of feeling guilty and confused, because I had no reason. Everything was wrong and yet nothing was wrong.

    I remember a gardener we had when I was a child. A wiry ex-soldier called Jomo. A man full of stories for little children. My brother and I followed him around as he watered the plants, asking him questions about plants and life, basking in his patience. But sometimes, he changed, became blank, barely spoke to anybody. Perhaps he had depression. Later, I will wonder about African writers, how many could be listed as well in this Roll of Depression, and if perhaps they, too, refuse to accept the name.

    The doctor says, “I’d recommend therapy, and that you try anti-depressants. I know a good therapist.”

    A therapist. I want to joke about it. I want to say that I am a strong Igbo woman, a strong Nigerian woman, a strong African woman, and we don’t do depression. We don’t tell strangers our personal business. But the joke lies still and stale on my tongue. I feel defensive about the suggestion of a therapist, because it suggests a cause that I do not know, a cause I need a stranger to reveal to me.

    I remember the first book I read about depression, how I clung to parts that I could use to convince myself that I did not have depression. Depressives are terrified of being alone. But I enjoy being alone, so it cannot be depression. I don’t have drama, I have not ever felt the need to rant, to tear off clothes, to do something crazy. So it cannot be depression, this strangeness. It cannot be the same kind of thing that made Virginia Woolf fill her pockets with stones and walk into a river. I stopped reading books about depression because their contradictions unsettled me. I was comforted by them, but I was also made anxious by them.

    I am in denial about having depression, and it is a denial that I am not in denial about.

    “I don’t want to see a therapist,” I say.

    She looks at me, as if she is not surprised. “You won’t get better if you do nothing. Depression is an illness.”

    It is impossible for me to think of this as I would any other illness. I want to impose it my own ideas of what an illness should be. In its lack of a complete explanation, it disappoints. No ebb and flow of hormones.

    “I don’t want to take medicine either. I’m worried about what it will do to my writing. I heard people turn into zombies.”

    “If you had diabetes would you resist taking medicine?”

    Suddenly I am angry with her. My prejudices about American healthcare system emerge: perhaps she just wants to bill more for my visit, or she has been bribed by a drug rep who markets antidepressants. Besides, American doctors over-diagnose.

    “How can I possibly have PMDD and depression? So how am I supposed to know where one starts and the other stops?” I ask her, my tone heavy with blame. But even as I ask her, I feel dishonest, because I know. I know the difference between the mood swings that come with stomach cramps and the flatness that comes with nothing.

    I am strong. Everyone who knows me thinks so. So why can’t I just brush that feeling aside? I can’t. And it is this, the “cantness”, the starkness of my inability to control it, that clarifies for me my own condition. I look at the doctor and I accept the name of a condition that has been familiar to me for as long as I can remember. Depression. Depression is not sadness. It is powerlessness. It is helplessness. It is both to suffer and to be unable to console yourself.

    This is not the real you, my family say. And I have found in that sentiment, a source of denial. But what if it is the real me? What if it is as much a part of me as the other with which they are more at ease? A friend once told me, about depression, that perhaps the ancestors have given me what I need to do the work I am called to do. A lofty way of thinking of it, but perhaps another way of saying: What if depression is an integral but fleeting part of me?

    A fellow writer, who himself has had bouts of depression, once wrote me to say: Remember that it is the nature of depression to pass. A comforting thought. It is also the nature of depression to make it difficult to remember this. But it is no less true. That strangeness, when it comes, can lasts days, weeks, sometimes months. And then, one day, it lifts. I am again able to see clearly the people I love. I am again back to a self I do not question.

    A few days after my doctor visit, I see a therapist, a woman who asks me if my depression sits in my stomach. I say little, watching her, imagining creating a character based on her. On the day of my second appointment, I call and cancel. I know I will not go again. The doctor tells me to try anti-depressants. She says in her kind and blunt way: “If they don’t work, they don’t work, and your body gets rid of them.”

    I agree. I will try antidepressants, but first, I want to finish my novel.

  • The pretend gardener: student discovers hidden life of Renaissance spy | Education | The Guardian

    https://www.theguardian.com/education/2016/dec/26/cambridge-student-discovers-hidden-life-renaissance-spy

    Something odd emerged as a Cambridge student began to research the work of a Renaissance garden designer: although the 16th century Italian artist, sculptor and designer Costantino de’ Servi travelled constantly and never seemed to be short of a bob, he seemed to have completed very few gardens - or any other kind of work.

    Wherever there was trouble in Europe, however, be it wars rumbling, alliances being forged, or regime change threatened, de’ Servi seemed to pop up. Then the historian discovered that wherever the supposed gardener travelled and whoever he was nominally working for – and he got as far west as the court of James I in London, and as far east as Persia – he remained on the payroll of one of the richest and most powerful families in Europe, the Medici of Florence. Like any good modern spy who keeps a low profile, there is no known portrait of him.

    #cartographie_historique et histoire assez marrante

  • ’Israeli Police Help Palestinian Girls Commit Suicide’

    An 18-year-old Palestinian who may have wanted to put an end to her life approached a checkpoint with a knife. The Border Police fulfilled her wish quickly, although it’s clear she could have been stopped by other means. Her family is shattered.
    Gideon Levy and Alex Levac Jun 03, 2016
    http://www.haaretz.com/israel-news/.premium-1.722869

    Sawsan Mansour’s father. Reproduction by Alex Levac

    The two appalled parents stood on either side of the checkpoint, a body lying between them on the road, without being able to see or know for certain that the body was in fact that of their daughter.

    Sawsan Mansour bled to death. In a harrowing coincidence, her father, Ali, had arrived at the Israeli side of the checkpoint on his way home from work as a gardener in a Jerusalem suburb, just minutes after Sawsan was shot. Her mother, Najah, hurried to the Palestinian side of the checkpoint after hearing that there had been a lethal incident there and that the victim might be Sawsan. No playwright could conceive of a grimmer, more dramatic scene: parents on the two sides of a barrier, their child’s body strewn between them.

    The parents were not allowed to approach. The corpse was placed in a black body bag and removed from the scene. Only a bloodstain remained on the road when the father was finally allowed to enter the area. A member of the Israeli security forces showed him a photograph of the dead girl’s face on his cellphone. Now all doubt was dispelled: It was Sawsan. Ali lost consciousness, he recalls later. Najah was then allowed in, too.

    The incident occurred shortly after 2:30 P.M. on May 23, at the Beit Iksa checkpoint, which controls access to an enclave of 12 villages trapped behind the separation barrier near Ramallah. Use of this checkpoint is restricted to residents of Beit Iksa and Palestinians over 50, so the traffic here is very sparse. The Border Policemen there spend most of their time behind bullet-proof glass or a wire fence, as we saw this week during a visit to site. The checkpoint barrier is raised and lowered for each vehicle, after it is checked.

    At the time of the incident involving Sawsan, the Israeli forces were about 10 meters from her, based on the bloodstain her father saw. The only witnesses were the Border Policemen.

    Sawsan Mansour.Reproduction by Alex Levac

    It is possible that Sawsan wanted to commit suicide. In the midst of her high school matriculation exams, she was in a state of great tension. Maybe there had also been a quarrel at home, maybe some other problem. According to her uncle, Mohammed Badwan, who came from the United States for her funeral together with his mother, Sawsan’s grandmother, Sawsan had planned to move to Syracuse, New York, where he and his mother have lived for years, to continue her schooling. The paperwork was almost complete. Sawsan wanted to study law.

    The truth is that no one knows for certain why a smiling 18-year-old, a gifted student, the daughter of a law-abiding family that has nothing to do with politics or terrorism, with a father who is a retired teacher, who has been working in Mevasseret Zion for 15 years and has many Israeli friends – why this young woman approached a checkpoint with a knife. Perhaps she was driven to put an end to her life, like many other adolescent girls, by a fleeting mood. Maybe she was out to perpetrate a terrorist attack, though that’s very unlikely, given her background.

    Her parents say they have no idea why she acted as she did. In any event, they see her killing as an act of cold-blooded murder, as she could have been stopped without being shot to death.

    “When someone goes to a rooftop and threatens to kill himself, security people everywhere do all they can to save him,” says Iyad Hadad, the local field researcher for the Israeli human rights organization B’Tselem. “But here the Border Policemen are doing the opposite: They are assisting these girls to commit suicide instead of saving them.”

    Indeed, the killing of Sawsan Mansour has all the trappings of an execution. It is extremely unlikely that she posed a mortal danger to the policemen, who fired at her, pumping three bullets into a teenager waving a knife at them. It hardly stands to reason that there was no other way to stop her. But there is no doubt that no one will stand trial for this act. It’s all part of the routine, you know.

    A pall of deep mourning hangs over her home in the village of Biddu, northeast of Jerusalem. Her father speaks broken Hebrew, his words punctuated by tears that he quickly wipes away with a paper towel. Occasionally, he also mumbles something to himself before replying to a question. Najah, the mother, seems to be stronger. The couple has four sons and two daughters. Sawsan was the youngest, a high-school senior.

    She was still sleeping on May 23 when Ali left for his job in Mevasseret Zion. He passed through the Beit Iksa checkpoint, as usual. When he returned, in the afternoon, a passerby told him the checkpoint was closed. Ali waited in a shared taxi with his brother, Razi, who also works in Israel. That same day Israel had returned the bodies of a sister and brother from the nearby village of Katana, and Ali was sure that disturbances had erupted ahead of their funeral. The taxi waited about 300 meters from the checkpoint. People started to mill about, but no one knew what was going on.

    “Suddenly I had a feeling,” Ali says now, closing his eyes and again mumbling to himself.

    The taxi driver then showed him an Internet photo of a girl who had been shot at the checkpoint. Her face was covered, but he recognized the dress. He remembered that Sawsan had worn it the evening before, when she’d gone to visit her sister. Fear seized him. He called his wife: “Is Sawsan home?”

    Najah told him that not long before, she had seen the teen on the balcony, studying, before going off to make sandwiches for her nephews, who were visiting. Maybe she went to her grandfather’s place, Najah suggested, to study in quiet.

    But now Sawsan’s mother became worried, too, and she went outside with two of her sons. When their search proved fruitless, they headed for the checkpoint, about three kilometers from the house.

    At the checkpoint, Najah’s wrenching screams, after she was assaulted by the bitter truth, were heard by Ali on the other side. The security man who showed Ali the cellphone image of his dead daughter tried to comfort him.

    Ali was told to go to Ofer military base to identify the body, and was stunned by the thorough body search he was forced to undergo before being allowed to see Sawsan. He was then questioned about her possible motives. He told the interrogator he had no idea.

    “An 18-year-old girl who weighs 45 kilos [99 pounds] is not a danger to soldiers’ lives,” he told the interrogator, adding, “They could have arrested her instead of killing her.” Ali knows the procedures at the checkpoint, which he passes through every day, and he is certain there was no way his daughter could have posed a threat to the forces there.

    Sawsan’s parents only saw a photograph of the knife – they say it is not from their house. They also have no idea how she got to the checkpoint, apparently in a car.

    The body was returned to the family four days later, and the burial took place that same day.

    The road between the checkpoint and the village is now scorched from the tires that were set ablaze here after the funeral. Sawsan’s parents objected to an autopsy being performed on the body, so the physicians at the hospital in Ramallah, where the body was taken, made do with X-rays. Najah tries to say something about Sawsan’s death being a result of the oppression, and Ali hushes her. “She’s dead and there is nothing more to add.”

    A Border Police spokesman stated, in response to a query from Haaretz: “In complete contrast to the allegations that were raised, during the incident in question a terrorist who was walking toward a Border Police post aroused the fighters’ suspicions. They called to her to stop, and when she did not, they implemented the arrest-of-suspect procedure. The terrorist ignored the calls, which included warnings in Arabic and in Hebrew, and continued to approach the fighters, who refrained throughout from opening fire as long as there was no clear and present danger to their lives.

    “When the terrorist drew near, she took out a knife and brandished it with the aim of stabbing one of the fighters. The fighters, who felt concrete and immediate mortal danger, fired with precision and neutralized the terrorist. It should be emphasized that an investigation of the incident shows that the fighters acted according to proper procedures, and that their vigilance apparently saved lives.”

    And Ali says, in his workman’s Hebrew, “These are not human beings. What they did to her like that – not human beings.” He informed his employers in Mevasseret Zion that he had problems at home and would not be able to come to work the following week.

  • The Tao of Vegetable Gardening by Carol Deppe - Chelsea Green
    http://www.chelseagreen.com/bookstore/item/the_tao_of_vegetable_gardening

    The Tao of Vegetable Gardening explores the practical methods as well as the deeper essence of gardening. In her latest book, groundbreaking garden writer Carol Deppe The Resilient Gardener, Breed Your Own Vegetable Varieties focuses on some of the most popular home garden vegetables—tomatoes, green beans, peas, and leafy greens—and through them illustrates the key principles and practices that gardeners need to know to successfully plant and grow just about any food crop.

    Deppe’s work has long been inspired and informed by the philosophy and wisdom of Tao Te Ching, the 2,500-­year-­old work attributed to Chinese sage Lao Tzu and the most translated book in the world after the Bible. The Tao of Vegetable Gardening is organized into chapters that echo fundamental Taoist concepts: Balance, Flexibility, Honoring the Essential Nature (your own and that of your plants), Effortless Effort, Non-Doing, and even Non-­Knowing. Yet the book also offers a wealth of specific and valuable garden advice on topics as diverse as:

    The Eat­-All Greens Garden, a labor­ and space­-efficient way to provide all the greens a family can eat, freeze, and dry—all on a tiny piece of land suitable for small­-scale and urban gardeners.
    The growing problem of late blight and the future of heirloom tomatoes—and what gardeners can do to avoid problems, and even create new resistant varieties.
    Establishing a Do­-It-­Yourself Seed Bank, including information on preparing seeds for long­-term storage and how to “dehybridize” hybrids.
    Twenty-­four good places to not plant a tree, and thirty­-seven good reasons for not planting various vegetables.

    Designed for gardeners of all levels, from beginners to experienced growers, The Tao of Vegetable Gardening provides a unique frame of reference: a window to the world of nature, in the garden and in ourselves.

    #hiiiiiiiii #jardinage cc @koldobika

    • Table des matières, pour saliver un peu

      Introduction

      1. Honoring the Land

      Gardening in Nature’s Image—But Which Nature and Which

      Image? | Has Nature Thought of Everything? | On Being

      a Member of a Keystone Species. | Organic and Beyond.

      2. Honoring the Essential Nature of the Plants

      Sun, Earth, Air, Water, Warmth. | What Can We Grow? |

      Expected First and Last Frost Dates. | Sun and Shade

      Tolerance. | Some Like It Hot; Some Like It Cold. | When

      to Plant Everything. | Planting Guide.

      3. Honoring Your Own Essential Nature

      Discovering Your Inner Gardener. | Planning Versus

      Spontaneity. | Structure, Labor, and Freedom.

      4. Flexibility

      Choosing Gardening Styles and Methods. | Getting the

      Most from the Small Garden. | Volunteers. | How to Eat a

      a Weed—Dandelions, Lambsquarters, Purslane. | The

      Prepper’s Garden.

      5. Balance

      Grand Versus Prosaic. | How Much Garden? | Limiting

      Factors.| Too Much Tilling. | Too Much Watering. | Too

      Much Fertilizer. | Too Many Pests. | Knowing When to

      Stop.

      6. Non-Doing

      Daring to Not Do. | On Not Tilling, Digging, Mowing, or

      Tending Absolutely Everything. | Twenty-Four Good

      Places Not to Plant a Tree. | Seven Reasons Not to Chop

      Down a Tree. | Thirty-Seven Reasons for Not Planting

      Various Vegetables. | On Not Planting Purple Flowers in

      Front of an Orange Brick House. | Flower-Patterned

      Shirts Attract Bees. | A Weed by Any Other Name Is

      Usually Still a Weed.

      7. Beginning—Tomatoes

      Begin with Something You Really Love. | Tomato Kinds

      and Colors. | Flavor Favorites. | Thirty Interesting

      Open-Pollinated TomatoVarieties. | Starting Tomatoes

      from Seed–Growing Transplants. | Potting Soil for

      Germinating Seeds and Starting Transplants. | Preparing

      the Ground. | Hardening Off and Planting Transplants.

      | Do Carrots Really Love Tomatoes?—Garden Woman

      Adventures. | Polycultures. | Supporting and Nurturing.

      | Watering and Mulching. | Why It Will Soon Be

      Impossible to Grow Our Current Generation of Heirloom

      Tomatoes and What to Do About It–Late Blight |

      Dealing with Late Blight. | Late Blight Resistant Hybrid

      Tomato Varieties. | Late Blight Resistant Heirloom and

      Open-Pollinated Varieties. | Why the Best-Flavored

      Tomato May Not Be the One That Is Picked Vine-Ripe.

      | Using Green Tomatoes.

      8. Nurturing—Weeding

      Avoid, Delay, Remove. | Garden Woman Meets Pigweed

      with Attitude. | The American Square Hoe. | Buying,

      Using, and Sharpening the Peasant Hoe. | Buying, Using,

      and Sharpening the Coleman Hoe. | Stirrup Hoes. |

      Wheel Hoes. | Electric Wheel Hoe and Electric Tiller.

      9. Non-Knowing—Squash

      Adventures in Ignorance. | The Perfect

      Polyculture—Squash and Overwintering Kale. |

      ‘Candystick Dessert Delicata’ Squash. |‘Lofthouse

      Landrace Moschata’ Squash. | Apologizing to a Squash.

      | Butternut Squash Cookery. | Planting by the Moon.

      | Talking to Your Plants. | True Understanding.

      10. Effortless Effort—The Eat-All Greens Garden

      The No-Labor Garden—Just Sow and Harvest. | The

      Nutritionally Most Important Home Garden Crop. |

      Leaves Versus Heads or Stems. | The Essential Role of

      Cooking. | Using Greens in Soups and Stews. | The

      Mess o’ Greens. | Harvesting and Handling Eat-All

      Greens. | Freezing Eat-All Greens. | Dried Greens and

      Herbal Teas. | Lactofermenting Greens. | Growing

      Eat-All Greens. | Eleven Great Eat-All Greens Varieties.

      11. Peas and Beans

      Nitrogen Fixing and Legumes. | Dry Seeds Versus Edible

      Pods Versus Green Seeds. | Pea Vine Types and

      Support. | Shelling Peas. | Edible-Podded Peas. |

      Growing Peas. | Presoaking Legume Seed Without

      Suffocating It. | Keep Peas and Beans Picked. |

      Harvesting and Using Edible-Podded Peas. | Kinds

      of Bean Varieties—Green, Dry, Shelly. | Pole Versus

      Bush Green Beans. | Seed Color and Green Bean Flavor.

      | Supporting Pole Beans. | Growing Beans. | Growing

      Pole Beans on Corn. | Harvesting and Using Green Beans.

      12. Joy

      Jumping for Joy. | On Carrying Vegetables. | Weeding

      Meditation. | Noticing. | Simple Pleasures. | Sunset.

      13. Completion—Seeds

      Cycles and Circles. | The Do-It-Yourself Seed Bank. |

      You Will Not Fall Off the Edge of the Earth If You

      Don’t Save All Your Own Seed. | Preparing Seed for

      Long-Term Storage. | Containers for Storing Seed. |

      Eight Seed-Saving Myths. | Creating Your Own Modern

      Landraces. | Rejuvenating Heirloom Varieties. | Breeding

      Crops for Organic Systems. | Dehybridizing

      Hybrids—Disease-Resistant Tomatoes. | Tomato

      Genes and Genetics. | Breeding the Heirloom Tomatoes

      of Tomorrow.

    • http://bountifulgardens.net/inspiring-new-book-the-tao-of-gardening

      When we got wind of a new Carol Deppe book, the staff started to jockey to see who could take home the review copy first. Carol’s specialty is figuring out fun, cheap ways to overcome obstacles that would stop most people. No land? Bad back? Drought? New killer tomato diseases? Gluten intolerant? Short season? No Money? With her unique combination of humor, innovation, down-to-earth observation, and learning (she has a PhD in genetics), she shows us how she has found ways around them all. And Carol never takes anything, including the stuff “everybody knows” for granted.

      The theme of Tao of Gardening is cultivating Joy and Serenity along with your garden. But in Carol’s world, joy and serenity are directly tied to working efficiently, discovering new techniques, and preparing for unprecedented future challenges. So along the way, we learn about her new “eat-all garden” technique. We learn about preparing for the new strains of late blight that threaten heirloom tomatoes (and why it is so important never to put store-bought tomatoes in your compost). And we get a generous helping of recipes and labor-saving tips. You don’t want to miss “Thirty-seven reasons for not planting various vegetables,” which is a useful antidote to going crazy with you seed order!

      La dernière phrase sent le vécu :-)

    • J’ai repensé à ce “Thirty-seven reasons for not planting various vegetables” cet après-midi en voyant mes amaranthes : c’est une super plante avec une richesse en minéraux et vitamines incroyable, une protéine super équilibrée en acides aminées dont les graines en contiennent je ne sais quel super pourcentage, mais par contre :
      – si t’es à la bourre dans tes plantations de printemps ça commence à fleurir alors que c’est encore dans le godet, et une fois transplanté ça grandit moins bien que les plants mis en terre plus tôt, car une fois en mode floraison ça change pas d’avis même si tu as mis un bon compost à la plantation, même si t’arroses bien et même si coupes les fleurs pour stimuler la croissance foliaire.
      – ça a besoin de tuteurs (quand t’as déjà 50 pieds de tomate t’as que ça a foutre)
      – les feuilles des variétés à fleurs jaunes ont un goût assez amer, du coup on en mange pas beaucoup, et on aurait un meilleur apport en vitamines et minéraux en optant pour des légumes feuilles qui en sont moins concentrés mais dont du coup on mangerait plus facilement.
      – j’ai de l’amaranthe rétroflexe parmi mes "mauvaises" herbes d’été, ça pousse tout seul c’est sûrement aussi riche et ça a un goût plus doux

      Je me suis aussi souvenu pourquoi ça faisait 8 ans que j’avais pas cultivé d’amaranthe à grains :
      – s’il pleut en septembre les panicules moisissent, et les graines avec
      – si t’arrives à récolter les panicules sans qu’ils aient versé ou moisi, il faut les faire sécher puis les battre dans un vieux drap pour extraire les graines, puis faire sauter les graines dans le vent pour séparer les pétales
      – il reste toujours quelques pétales fanés qui laissent un sale goût aux graines quand tu les cuisines
      – tout ce boulot pour ça, ça fait quand même un peu chier.

      Bref, l’an prochain à la place je fais du sorgho et des bettes.

    • non il faudrait vraiment un piquet par plante. À 50 cm ça commence à verser à la première entrée maritime. Ou alors il faudrait que je les plante en une seule ligne mais avec quand même des piquets intercalaires tous les 3-4 plants.

      le sorgho c’est beaucoup plus flexible, c’est tolérant à la chaleur et à la sécheresse mais si c’est arrosé ça dit pas non :-) en fait en conditions humides le maïs donne plus que le sorgho (mais utilise moins bien l’azote du sol donc il faut apporter plus de compost), en revanche en conditions sèches le sorgho tient bon et le maïs flanche.

    • voir http://www.ehlgbai.org/sites/default/files/media/colloque-eau-2006.pdf pages 37-39

      Le sorgho est capable d’extraire l’azote du sol d’une manière beaucoup plus efficace que le maïs ; c’est un avantage loin d’être négligeable sur un plan économique (coût réduit en fertilisant) et sur un plan environnemental compte tenu de sa capacité à prélever l’azote dans le sol. La capacité de repousse du sorgho en automne (après ensilage), lui permet de prélever les reliquats d’azote et de diminuer ainsi les risques de pollution de la ressource en eau.

  • #Jardinage, #nutrition et le cas particulier des #vegans évoqué dans The Resilient Gardener de Carole Deppe

    As gardeners, we eat lots of fruits and vegetables of many kinds, and this big variety satisfies our needs for most vitamins, minerals, phytochemi-cals, and fiber. Those nutrients that might be lacking in the fruits and vegetables are generally found in whole grains or beans. So a diet based upon staple whole grains and beans, fruits, and vegetables is likely to be a healthy diet.

    Getting enough iodine used to be a problem for many inland people once. Now, with iodine added to commercial salt and fish available even to people far from oceans, lack of iodine isn’t common.

    Many people in temperate climates don’t get enough vitamin D. The sun isn’t intense enough in winter. Indoor lives, clothes, and sunblock further exacerbate the situation. Eggs may provide vitamin D, but it depends upon what the laying flock is eating and how much sun they are getting. I take a daily (standard, not super-potent) vitamin pill as well as cod liver oil, both of which include vitamin D.

    Most vegan vegetarians can generally get their protein pretty easily from plant sources. Protein needs of individuals seem to vary widely, however. I suspect some people need too much protein to thrive as vegetarians. But clearly some people do fine as vegetarians. Most vegetarians, with a full diet of whole grains, beans, and many vegetables, especially dark green leafy vegetables, probably don’t need to worry about either protein or calcium.

    However, there are three nutrients that are potentially problematic for those who don’t eat at least some animal products. Vitamin B12 is found only in animal foods. Vegan vegetarians are advised to take a B12 supplement or a general daily vitamin containing B12.

    Vegetarians may also lack vitamin D. That, too, can be solved with a simple once-daily all-vegetarian vitamin pill.

    The third potential problem is omega-3 fatty acids. If we could all convert the short-chain plant form of omega-3 fatty acid into the longer-chain animal forms that we need, omega-3 fatty-acid needs of vegetarians could be provided by plant sources such as flaxseed, walnuts, canola oil, and, to some extent, greens. However, as already mentioned, not everyone can convert the short-chained plant-derived omega-3s into the longer-chain ones. Those who cannot need to eat animal products containing the long-chain omega-3s. That is, not everyone can survive and thrive as a vegetarian. For some of us, of whom I am undoubtedly one, eating meat or animal products or fish is obligatory.

    #santé

    • La #vitamine B12 offre un débat sans fin sur sa disponibilité dans le monde végétal, dans le doute je ne suis pas sûr que ce soit possible d’en avoir dans un régime végan mais il existe des compléments végans de B12.

      Pour la vitamine D il semble que ce sont principalement les sources animales qui en dispose mais Paul Stamet a sorti des chiffres très impressionnants de vitamine D2 pour de champignons séchés au soleil quelques heures les lamelles à l’air. J’imagine que me si c’est de la D2 les quantités doivent contrebalancer la moindre absorption.

      Je pense que la discussion sur les omegas longues chaînes met le doigt sur un point important : on est plus ou moins compatible avec un régime végan au niveau de notre génétique. Ça pourrait expliquer pourquoi certain⋅e⋅s vont être en bonne santé avec un régime végétalien alors que d’autres vont voir leur santé décliner.

      J’ai vu les mêmes soucis de conversion vers la vitamine A dans certaines études. (Il semble aussi que la vitamine A peut influencer sur le taux de vitamine D qui lui même influe sur l’absorption de calcium).

      Conclusion : avec une production de shiitake séchés correctement et un petit élevage de volaille nourrie correctement (herbe et insectes), a priori on a tout ce qu’il faut sans se soucier de nos prédispositions génétiques.

  • Ron Finley : A guerilla gardener in South Central LA
    http://www.ted.com/talks/lang/fr/ron_finley_a_guerilla_gardener_in_south_central_la.html


    (sous-titres en français et plein d’autres langues)
    très enthousiasmante initiative d’#agriculture_urbaine dans l’une des plus grosses mégalopoles de la planète

    Gardening is the most therapeutic and defiant act you can do, especially in the inner city. Plus, you get strawberries.

    If kids grow kale, kids eat kale. If they grow tomatoes, they eat tomatoes. But when none of this is presented to them, if they’re not shown how food affects the mind and the body, they blindly eat whatever you put in front of them.

    #bricole #communs #malbouffe #potagers