WNC: Greenhouse

by L.J. Ockerstrom
photos by T. Togasaki

On the grounds of Washington National Cathedral, a stone’s throw from the Cathedral nave with its carved dark oak choir stalls and the flags of the states that drape gracefully down the high windows, the Cathedral Greenhouse occupies a quiet corner. In the tradition of medieval monastic communities, the Greenhouse nurtures herbs and greenery, extending to all who enter a garden ministry. Boxwood, grown and propagated on the Cathedral grounds, is a particular favorite of Greenhouse visitors.

Approaching the Greenhouse, you will see collections of garden statues—Celtic crosses, angels, stone rabbits—stacks of pots, rows of plants on makeshift tables and stepped displays, all artfully, if slightly haphazardly, arranged in creative chaos. In January, the colors are muted. In the side yard the tables are bare, but in the “plastic house” beyond the public part of the Greenhouse, seeds are nurtured and new plants are being coached into life by the gardeners who plot and plan for the coming seasons.

You head toward the Greenhouse door, descend a couple of steps. Your foot crunches against the pebbles on the shallow steps, and you turn the handle of the door. Inside, you are greeted by a featured display—right now, it happens to be a fairy garden, a miniature garden in a box with a meandering fence and a tiny arbor, with pint-sized plants (baby’s tears; Hypoestas, or polka dot plant; a little Irish moss in the tiniest urn) creeping up around the objects. Almost hidden beneath the soft needles of a tiny Norfolk pine, a little fairy perches on a teeny bench to enjoy the scene. You walk up to this miniscule garden, bend over it, and screw up your eyes to adjust your vision to the dimensions of the garden, and before you know it, you’ve entered a new world—filled with the flora of a fourth dimension, and a country air all its own.

This fairy garden at first is all you see. Then you look around, and realize there is a cash register hidden in the jungle of plants that spill out over the long, parallel tables that run all the way from the greenhouse entrance to the gift shop at the back. There might be other shoppers thoughtfully browsing through the plants, studying them, just as you are doing, perhaps carrying a couple of potted plants in a cardboard box as they roam the aisles. Someone is paying for some plants; the cash register, even as quiet as it is, sounds out of place here, and almost jars the peaceful plant life.

You blink at the reminder of a commercial world, and look around. You walk slowly, your eyes trying to take in all the plants as you pass them: the heart fern under the bell jar; the cotton candy fern; the climbing fig. You turn your head just in time to prevent a collision with a Norfolk pine, its fine needled arms reaching out; you pass the delicate white and purple orchids; the bright pink cyclamen. Suddenly you spy a green plastic watering can amid the leaves; for a minute, you think it’s a strange plant, but then you remember what it is and why it’s there. You admire the prayer plant, the areca palm, the peperomia; you laugh at the funny concrete pigs peeking out from beneath the deeply veined leaves.

Just as you reach a door at the end, you are stopped again. This time, it is the cat, dubbed affectionately here, “Katherine of Tarragon,” luxuriously sprawled out on the table alongside the button fern and the weeping fig in the only patch of sun to be found on this mostly cloudy day. Katherine opens a sleepy eye, and you stare at each other for a moment before making your peace. You move on, and Katherine licks her paw and rubs it around her eyes, yawns, and stretches out all four legs before curling up again in the warmth of the sunny rays she has claimed. The leaves of the weeping fig tremble slightly in the wake of her movement.

You linger by the door next to the cat’s nesting place. You peer into a room crowded with plants and books, small garden crosses and holy figures on the walls, a high table with another cash register. You ask yourself, “Should I enter?” In the midst of your pause, a young woman with long, blond hair looks and an easy smile looks up and welcomes you: “Come in!” she calls, beckoning you into further exploration.

“Oh, I thought this might be private,” you say, apologetically.

“Oh, no, this is the Greenhouse Gift Shop,” Brandy answers. “Come in and browse!”

And so you do. Before you know it, you have found the perfect plant to take back to for your daughter’s birthday, or for your friend’s anniversary. Or perhaps instead you plan to return another day. You could, after all, spend more time perusing the garden books. There was that intriguing book with recipes from monastic gardens, and some striking photographs in another of orchids.

You retrace your path, go back through the door, eye the sleeping Katherine of Tarragon as you plow your way back to the front of the Cathedral Greenhouse, its tables thick with greenery and gazing balls, with gerber daisies and narcissus and baskets and paper whites. It has been a lovely afternoon, a day away from the crowds and the fast pace of city life. An afternoon spent close to God’s green earth on a cold day.

Leaving, you glance back into the miniature world of the fairy garden. You open the door, and as you step out, pebbles crunch beneath your foot. Suddenly the sun comes out from behind a cloud, and you find yourself smiling into the wind.

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