Making the Most of My Third Space*

Dedicated to the hands that tend our haven: Mary, Dan, Aase, Mark, and Susie.

Third Space originally referred to locations away from both home and work — a cosy, neighbourhood venue where people could meet to mingle and chat. In the thirty-six years since the coining of that phrase, the definition and interpretation of what a third space might be has become more fanciful and more personally felicitous. Mine, for instance, is the community garden that borders our laneway and during the past two years it became increasingly important for me and my wellbeing.

Photography is my passion, wildlife and wildflowers in particular, and I typically go out shooting four days each week. Regrettably, for two years now, I’ve not been able to get out very much at all. I have been afflicted with random, rapid onset, syncopes — numbering from as few as 5 to as many as 50 per day. It is debilitating, limiting, and frustrating!

Enter kindly Kismet, in the form of bees, wasps, hornets, hoverflies, moths and butterflies. Our community volunteer gardeners plant a pollinator flower bed each year and I’ve been able to spend my outdoor time shooting the pollinators that visited — and there were a lot. First came the idea of a new project, then a renewed sense of adventure: Safely within my third space, I’d be able to observe, document, and learn about all of these beautiful, industrious creatures.

On making the most of my third space…

If it is black and yellow, if it flies and buzzes, if it stings, if it eats nectar and pollen from our flowers, it must be a bee, right? At least that is what I believed until I began photographing, identifying and studying the only wildlife I had access to at home. Our laneway garden is planted with all native blooming species each one chosen because of its appeal to the pollinators. And they came. In absolute droves. All the usual suspects, plus a variety of lesser-known species that are not as commonly found as others in this area.

Throughout the past two seasons, I was able to count and positively identify a few more than thirty different pollinator species but, by a wide margin, the three most common species to share my third space (all females or “workers”) were the Common Eastern Bumblebee (Bombus impatiens), the Western Honey Bee (Apis mellifera) and the Northern Paper Wasp (Polistes fuscatus).

Many of my images are of wildflowers and I’ve written a book about wildflower whimsy. Wherever wildflowers bloom there are lots of bees. I thought they all worked harmoniously alongside each other but through observation, I now know this is not so. When pollinators converge there is hierarchy drama.

Come autumn, the workers’ lives are dedicated to the focussed and purposeful gathering of pollen and nectar, to sustain the hive. It is work that requires perseverance and endurance — they typically make more than ten daily visits to their preferred blossoms and the importance of their obligatory tasks does engender rivalry and conflict. Of the three most common pollinators in my third space, the biggest bee, the Bumblebee, was the least dominant species, ceding its position on the best flowers to just about all others. The overall biggest pollinator was the Paper Wasp. In their quest for pollen, they ruthlessly challenged the Bumblebees. The real gladiators, though, were the Honeybees; smaller than the other two but also the most ferocious — constantly asserting their superiority and defending their chosen territory.

Nestling into the plants, I heard not only their buzzing, but even the sound of the beating of their wings which was truly amazing for me. I was also able to observe and photograph anatomical details that I’d never before seen. One of those specifics is that the Great Golden Digger Wasp has sharp thorns on their legs, known as spines, which makes them anatomically perfect for digging their nests in the ground. Another “discovery” were the saddlebags on the legs of the bees. Scientific name corbicula, more commonly known as pollen baskets, they are a flat, colorless sac on the outside of the female honeybee’s back legs. As she works, her basket swells and becomes the colour of the pollen she gathers, ranging from bright yellow to dark orange.

It’s not an exaggeration to write that, discovering my new third space was transformative for me; I learned a lot about pollinators, added thousands of new photographs to my catalogue and became truly fascinated by the industry of bees and wasps.

What suburbia cries for are the means for people to gather easily, inexpensively, regularly, and pleasurably — a place on the corner… that does not necessitate getting into an automobile.*

Our community garden satisfies all of those requirements. We can wander over without a vehicle, without cost, as often as desired, stay as long as we want, and each interlude is very pleasurable. Our garden is where we randomly but regularly and casually connect with each other, making it an idyllic third space. Personally, I experienced a sense of safety, knowing that, should I faint, someone would quickly come to my aid.

There’s a kind of magic that happens when people meet up in the garden: As people are watering or weeding or simply wandering about, inhibitions seem to fade away, conversations of an intensely personal nature slowly begin and gradually but steadily, an alliance forms. People listen and empathize. Sometimes assistance or advice is quietly requested; just as often, solutions and comfort are gently offered. In these reciprocal exchanges, loads are lifted — simply knowing that others know and care makes the burden just a little bit easier to bear.

There were also a lot of giggles, many at my own expense. Produce was shared out. Recipes and plant cuttings exchanged. A milestone birthday celebrated. On one occasion a box of luxurious chocolates was passed around (one of the lads will never forget that afternoon, promise!).

The garden provided a quietly welcoming atmosphere, perfectly suited to a third space, where quiet, unplanned conversations bloomed. Within the safety, comfort and calm of its ambience, an unexpected and inexplicable alchemy occurred, transmuting over time, casual meetings and often quick conversations into a deep rapport, partnership and togetherness that doesn’t happen in coffee shops, bars, libraries or living rooms. Entering our pleasant, peaceful, and welcoming third space is like finding an emotional safety net, gently catching you and offering a soft landing right when you need it most. For me, the newbie, it was also a crucible for forging new friendships.

I am profoundly grateful to everyone who was part of, and shared in, my third space escapades, which afforded me more satisfaction and joy than I’d dared to hope for. I became more deeply entrenched in my community and best, I’ve discovered a delightful new passion for pollinators.

My Third Realm

Fourteen roofs share a single line,
A shared wall, a familiar floor,
The first space where the shadows pine,
And quiet waits behind the door.
The second space is a distant shore,
A map of tasks I cannot trace,
When sudden faintness stalls the pace,
And binds my step to solid ground.

But just beyond the Mill Creek lane,
A third room opens, wild and green,
A sanctuary out of pain,
Where secret currents run unseen.
The natural brush, the wild routine,
A sanctuary, safe and deep,
Where heavy thoughts are put to sleep,
And quiet wonderment is found.

Here, striped and tiny wings take flight,
The droning flies and bees arrive,
They pull the spirit toward the light
And teach a heart to stay alive.
In pollen dust, the wild things thrive,
They do not care for spinning skies,
They only ask for sun’s rise,
And petals open to the air.

This laneway garden, rough and free,
Has broken through my grey defense,
It anchors what is left of me
And brings a healing permanence.
A sacred, quiet third space, hence—
It pulled me from a darkened place,
And gave my tethered life the space
To breathe, to linger, and to see.

‘Til next time, y’all…

⭑First coined by the sociologist Ray Oldenburg in his book The Great Good Place.
⭑Ray Oldenburg