A night blooming cereus, otherwise known as the "Queen of the Night."
These are the dog days. My entire life seems to slow with the torpor of summer. Work days are long, sunshine blasts my home for eleven hours straight daily, we seek out bodies of water to jump into as often as possible, in search of even the slightest reprieve.
This year, though, has felt like an old faithful Louisiana summer—the heat is intense, but almost every afternoon there is a thunderstorm. They go two ways, as far as I see it, the storms: It might be a short, dramatic (sometimes terrifying) rain, or instead a light, long drizzle with more subtle audibles. I pray for anything I can get each afternoon as I drive home. My prayer is to spend any number of minutes on my porch swing, under the fan, listening to the rain and looking over our gardens. My dad called summer afternoons like this “Cajun siesta.” My porch siestas these days include a hogwild naked two-year-old and a bubble machine, making the time on my porch swing ten times more magical.
These porch dwelling days are when I try to let go of control within the garden. I am exhausted from the heat and yearn to sit, relish, and observe the insanity of life abounding around me. I worked hard in the garden all spring, and will get back to it come fall.
This is also around the time that my summer rituals in the garden shift toward evening. If I am so lucky, I return to the porch alone at dusk. It is then that the oppressed summer gardens wake up and begin their dance with night. I like to sit and watch the last sunlight, luminous sherbet colors brushing over perennial blooms all while basking in the intro chorus of sound that has blanketed the space.
"I couldn’t imagine a better place for moon gardens than Southern Louisiana, where so many tropical night blooming plants thrive alongside natives and epic nocturnal wildlife action—our astral traffic of lightning bugs, sphinx moths, and speedy bats; our owl, cricket, and frog song."
This brings me to moon gardens—a feast for night pollinators and a dramatic sensory experience for their human guests. I have yet to specifically design an intentional moon garden, but it’s an idea that I have been pondering as I sit in my accidental haphazard one. Any garden comes to life, in ways, at night. But I have been dreaming of dedicating a garden space specifically to the night, inspired by gardens around the world, like the Mehtab Bagh opposite the Taj Mahal, or Vita Sackville-West’s “White Garden” at Sissinghurst Castle in England. I want to work with the moon and play with light.
I couldn’t imagine a better place for moon gardens than Southern Louisiana, where so many tropical night blooming plants thrive alongside natives and epic nocturnal wildlife action—our astral traffic of lightning bugs, sphinx moths, and speedy bats; our owl, cricket, and frog song. What better way to reclaim our intense summers that we love to hate? When I send expat Louisiana friends videos of my garden at night, they nearly always remark on the sounds that they miss dearly, an intensity they have yet to experience anywhere else.
In designing a moon garden, white flowers are ideal, as they reflect the light of the moon, all the while offering excellent visibility to night pollinators. Some excellent options are: crinums, various gingers are bat and moth showstoppers, angels trumpet. Some flowers, such as night blooming cereus, night blooming jasmine, and moon vine (all aptly named) only open at night. Many other flowers are so devoted to warm summer nights that they choose to emit more fragrance after the sun falls. These include: magnolias, gardenias, citrus tree blooms, flowering tobacco, sweet olive, and mock orange.
One can also play around with silvery foliage or light pink blooms. Some that I find lovely under the moon include: various begonias, lavender, artemisia, olives, pineapple guava, phlox, opium poppies, and hellebores. I especially love a light bloom against a deep green leaf for maximum dramatic effect.
[Read this: Our Sustainable Garden—The Night Shift]
Another way to play with precious light is through tiny bodies of water. I always try to keep my bird baths full. Not only do they offer water to night pollinators, but they add to the ambiance. When I am in my garden at night, I often have a small string of lights on, especially if I am reading, but it’s important to keep the manmade lighting to a minimum. Our lighting has a negative effect on night pollinators, confusing navigation and causing an overall distraction and loss of energy. Fireflies especially feel this.
I believe it is important to bring gardens into your life entirely—share a meal under a tree whenever possible, have your siesta under a fan on your porch, step back outside as the sun has taken its bow to take a walk, meditate, or read under string lights. And if you can, join the wonder at night. The natural world never sleeps.
