Even though I'm preparing to move to the lakehouse within a few months, I'm enclosing a portion of my current backyard with cat-fencing, made of deer fence material. (Two of my cats have been killed by either the road or the woods, so this is about keeping my kittychildren safe.)
In hanging the deer fencing, I learned about what a niche is, and why it's so important.
In hanging the deer fencing, I learned about what a niche is, and why it's so important.
My backyard backs up against the woods. Much of my yard is beyond taming, but my immediate backyard is shaped like a bowl, and in this bowl I have creating pieces of a lovely retreat. A deck, a pond, a patio made of concrete chunks in mosaic, a pumphouse covered in clematis, and my favorite spot, the hot tub. It's been a good start, but there's always so much more to do: add the waterfall, mow the 2-foot grass up the hill, pick up the detrius that accumulates over several unfinished projects. Perhaps turn the unused telephone pole into the style of a sundial.
As soon as I hung the deer fencing, as soon as this area was enclosed, it felt completely different. Completely transformed. All of a sudden it felt like a framed, beautiful, idyllic space, full of dimension and rhythm. It became a cohesive whole, since it was now clearly defined. Not just part of an unending view, but a distinct, clearly formed garden space. What lay beyond it fell away, this became its own destination. And the unfinished tasks within it feel suddenly doable, since there is boundary, definition, and identity here. Niche, personified.
And space, with boundaries, seems paradoxically larger. Ample playspace.
