Ungardening

Do you ever blog in your head? I do. A lot. I find myself thinking through and actually composing blog posts in my casual times of the day--walking to lunch, doing the dishes, waiting for my boys to drift off to sleep.They never come out as I plan them. Its like I only see the tip and when I start the rest, things I didn't know were there get revealed. Yesterday, I found my head empty of blog posts. It sent me into a bit of a panic. How could I not have anything to blog about? Then, I sat back and enjoyed watching Canyon motor himself around the carport in his toy car. The blog entry came quickly. I am guilty of ungardening. The beds of my potential garden are full of life, but I have not cultivated them yet this year. My gardening has not been the same since I moved to Jersey nearly 6 years ago. The last real garden was the one on Jefferson that we created in the community garden space of our neighborhood. I came up with the design, inspired by a recent trip to Mexico that had left me fascinated by Mayan culture. Five squares, one as the center piece, the others angular shaped radiating from the middle. C built them. Our best collaborations were always oriented towards soil. We both worked them. Of course, the chard was my baby, lots of chard all the time. And we had way too much zuchinni, as usual, something I can rarely get enough of. Tomatoes delicious, carrots that were sweet baby Tane's first food when D & J visited. Midnight watering. I love night watering, the plants sound different, maybe because they whisper. I don't think that plot is a community garden anymore. I don't know what it is. So I am looking closer now. I have an instinct, we all do, towards knowing plants. I see it, there are flowers here. My wild primrose is in full bloom. And the fruit of the rose is delightful. Fall in the Botanical Garden, teaching kids about rosehips led to an addictive phase of consumption. Sucking out the vitamin c relishing in the minerals. I have these fruits right here. And Iris, not the wild kind, but some planted years ago. Lots of Iris. The herb garden is a staple. The chives are green and beautiful, new fresh culinary sage, and a basil plant, I think my mother put in a few weeks ago. Strawberries around front in my perrenial bed. At least I had the foresight this fall to spread yarrow and lavender seeds, and River and I transplanted a pattern of lavender and yarrow at the bottom of the drive. I have a vision of these protective plants growing tall, holding the foundations of my home together for years. They are tiny still. They will grow. Standing now, I realize I need only begin and it will be better than it is now. I start to rake away the pine needles covering my terraced raised beds. Uncovering brown earth, the possibility of planting soon pulls the rake for me. The compost pile continues to decompose next to me. I have all the parts, I just need the fortitude to manifest. Our best collaborations were soil oriented, our best collaborations were soil oriented. Our best collaborations were soil oriented. I am gardening alone now. The kids call to me to come play. River has discovered an inborn knack for tennis. Its the first time he's realized it is easy for him and he wants me to throw the ball and pine cones so he can swing full through, perfect form. Amazing. I have stopped gardening now. It is time for dinner and bed. I am too tired to go back outside. My eyelids are shutting, my body is still aching. The soil feels barren. I am scared of the dark. D & J have built a lovely garden this year. J is not on the river and all his energy has gone to cultivation. D is happy. She has learned about how the plants talk, especially in transplanting, you can see it is enlivening her. She breathlessly talks about watering, about the sunflower stalks raising high to the sky that will be coming. I am guilty of ungardening,I am here, in the dark. Watering the soil with tears, pouring, I am empty. Perhaps I am a wild woman who can only have a wild garden. Maybe, not watering will lead to only native plants and not weeds. Maybe, the rosehips are enough to sustain me. This ground has been too heavily raked. I can' get it to move. The soil feels poisoned. A bulldozer has knocked out the future, a leeching has robbed it of life. Here, let me plant some sweet clover. Can I please put in these tomatoes? Let a little water drizzle from the hose? Let the guilt wash away. Fingering these delicate roots, digging a tiny hole. Tucking this plant in for the season. "Inch by inch, row by row, gonna let this garden grow, all it takes is a rake and a hoe and piece of fertile ground. Someone bless these seeds I sow, someone warm them from below, till the rain comes tumblin' down."