Just Another Gardening Post
I did my rounds in the garden today, snacking on peas from a couple of late-blooming volunteer plants. I love volunteers the best. They are the wise ones that have chosen their own place in my garden and have thrived there, finding their optimum elements. I have volunteer potatoes too; two rows I thought I’d killed last summer in an over-zealous attempt to get them to produce more tubers. So I make room, I make room. I always make room for the ones that want to be there.
I pulled up two carrots for the boyos for breakfast. One carrot is fat at the top and bottom, thinner in the middle; a physical recording of water received, and its lack. It is something little I can hold in my hands that shows me bigger things.
Watering the tomatoes is always my favorite time, when I find peace and stillness. Otherwise, I’m scurrying around, making sure everything has everything it needs. Sometimes I pace the house – a pointless exercise. I could water tomatoes all day and think of nothing else. And think of everything else.
The only other time I’m still is when I’m writing, and then I’m not really still. I’m moving faster than you can see.
While I water tomatoes, I watch the birds in the sky and they are always different. Today it’s swallows; their sharp-edged wings cutting the air in swift and precise circles. They are the heirs apparent to the sky, should the falcons ever abdicate.
There is a tree on a hill in the next yard, and it is wilting. A tree, wilting. This is neither the driest place in the country, nor the hottest. There are some of you living with an embarrassment of rain right now, looking out windows and watching trees rot from it. Extremes don’t do anything any good.
I think, as I look around at this sheltered place, this wet and dry temperate planet we live on in the midst of the dark and bright happenings going on in the rest of the universe, and I think, I think, that the most precious and rare element is balance.
And I think this is all I’m trying to say.