The formal gardens of history were never intended to be places of respite and tranquility, rather the opposite. The formal gardens of Mesopotamia, Persia, later Spain and France, among others, were secluded spaces projecting the power of its resident monarch or autocrat, the aloofness and protected status of emperor and court.
Though the Garden of Eden was described as Paradise, the origin word “paridaiza” is the Persian term for “walled,” as in walled garden, a paradise for the ruler but not for a subject. The image of Eden depends upon its naive residents, not on the architect Yahweh, for its benignity.
The formal gardens are noted for symmetry and imposing dimensions, a large,forbidding landscape where ornament and artifice reign. For example, Xenophon records (in his book The Economist, 1 16-23) an anecdote of Lysander visiting Cyrus, the Persian emperor, and walking with the latter in his formal garden:
Lysander, it seems, had gone with presents sent by the Allies to Cyrus, who entertained him, and amongst other marks of courtesy showed him his ‘paradise’ at Sardis. Lysander was astonished at the beauty of the trees within, all planted at equal intervals, the long straight rows of waving branches, the perfect regularity, the rectangular symmetry of the whole, and the many sweet scents which hung about them as they paced the park. In admiration he exclaimed to Cyrus: “All this beauty is marvellous enough, but what astonishes me still more is the talent of the artificer who mapped out and arranged for you the several parts of this fair scene.” Cyrus was pleased by the remark, and said: “Know then, Lysander, it is I who measured and arranged it all. Some of the trees,” he added, “I planted with my own hands.” Then Lysander, regarding earnestly the speaker, when he saw the beauty of his apparel and perceived its fragrance, the splendour also of the necklaces and armlets, and other ornaments which he wore, exclaimed: “What say you, Cyrus? Did you with your own hands plant some of these trees?” whereat the other: “Does that surprise you, Lysander? I swear to you by Mithres, when in ordinary health I never dream of sitting down to supper without first practising some exercise of war or husbandry in the sweat of my brow, or venturing some strife of honour, as suits my mood.” “On hearing this,” said Lysander to his friend, “I could not help seizing him by the hand and exclaiming, ‘Cyrus, you have indeed good right to be a happy man, since you are happy in being a good man.'”
Doubtless such conversations surrounded all of the monuments of imperial antiquity up to the present, for the formal gardens are not sources of food but confections flattering their resident and owner, reflecting the imagined wisdom of king and emperor. The walls keep curious onlookers and peasants out, as much as do the castle walls, the fortress walls, the palace court, and the dungeons.
We are a long way from simplicity, even from aesthetics. The formal garden is vulgar, pompous, and completely unnatural. Symmetry projects the appearance of marching troops. Walls repel outsiders and nature itself, while imprisoning subjects and oher creatures. We should not admire “paradises.” Will we pine after them when they are inevitably lost? Expend our energies maintaining them for someone else, or for some ideal or vanity? We are better left cultivating our garden, imitating nature, then looking at someone’s else and longing for it rather than working on ours.
The Taoists of ancient China wanted their rulers to be anonymous, because their pompous edifices were not to be seen, indeed, did not exist. The Taoist Tillers school proposed that the king not have his own fields and forests, let alone gardens, but work shoulder to shoulder with peasants in the field. Shen-gong, the mythical first king of the Chinese, was lauded for being a healer, herbalist, and farmer — unseen by anyone, so perfectly did the kingdom function.
Contrast the formal garden, too, with the simple hermit’s hut: Kamo no Chomei, describing his hut, casually notes: “To the north of my little hut I have made a tiny garden surrounded by a thin low brushwood fence so that I can grow various kinds of medicinal herbs.” Adding, “Such is the style of my unsubstantial cottage.” The Buddhist monk-hermit and poet Ryokan considered Dogen’s “celestial garden” too abstract, too formal, instead celebrating wildflowers and even the weeds that offended Dogen so much.
How, then, to “garden”? Grow what is essential, edible (even flowers), nourishing, and substantial. Let scale and dimension reflect need, not excess or appearance. Mingle vegetables with flowers in conviviality. Establish perennials, for they will establish themselves forever (well, for a few years!) and return in greeting every spring to celebrate the passage of time and tenacity. Let all flourish, picking what is to be consumed the same day. Let nature express aesthetics, without too much human contrivance. If there are rock borders let them be overrun by creeping thyme. If there are walls, let flowering vines flourish climbing them, as if to mock the false boundary between nature and gardener. Individual bed spaces will be overlapped by prolific and flourishing plants. Let those plants that demand space be given their due, that they may reciprocate. Adding space is better than constricting self-development.
Here is a snippet about the garden, by Kahlil Gibran, from his “Sand and Foam”:
In the autumn I gathered all my sorrows and buried them in my garden. And when April returned and spring came to wed the earth, there grew in my garden beautiful flowers unlike all other flowers. And my neighbors came to behold them, and they all said to me, “When autumn comes again, at seeding time will you not give us of the seeds of these flowers that we may have them in our gardens?”