Seasons Clingers
Hi there!
I woke up in the morning to a garden soaked in rain, leaves still dripping from an overnight storm that passed through while we slept. (Thank you!). We needed rain. The browning grass and bushes around town have been on my mind as I’ve tended to my garden at home. My hope is that the greenspaces of the future (yards, parks, etc.) shift from primarily grass (which requires water and mowing throughout the season) to native plants and wildlife habitats (rewilding — giving it back to nature). In the meantime, I focus my attention/energy on the plants I brought home, or who’ve showed up throughout the season. My garden.
Helpful/Harmful
Sometimes, I worry that I’m an overly-attentive gardener. Am I watering too often, weakening the garden’s reserves by not letting everyone feel the drought? (Do plants need to suffer to promote their resilience?). Everyone looks happy, and I’m happy to do it, so I suppose it’s not a problem. I transplant those who seem to need a change of scenery — moving a flowering plant to a sunnier spot and the peppers to a drier one. I pinch back early growth to promote bushier herbs. I pick flowers only when I’m confident more will come, and that my harvesting won’t kill the whole plant just so I can bring flowers to work.
In the same breath/thought, I wonder if I’m neglectful. Not pulling up weeds and letting the nuisance flowers go to seed and spread everywhere. I destroy the pokers, and pull up the chokers, but otherwise I tend not to remove most plants that pop up. I let nature take its course much of the time. I observe and try to anticipate their needs, but I also honor the fact that these species have been around a lot longer than me, and they likely know what they need more than I do. They all had a journey to get here in my presence. Carried in a bird’s poop or on the breeze from faraway, seeds have to travel to get to their final resting place. And Oh! The luck of finding fertile ground and ideal conditions to thrive is really just a miracle in itself.
I don’t know where my line is (who stays, who goes), so I ask:
Are you harmful (to me or my garden)?
Are you a helper/provider?
Will you take more than you give?
Then I pluck, prune, or perpetuate the lifecycle. I don’t always get it right. I’ve inadvertently let nuisance plants rob my already-depleted soil of vital nutrients. I’ve plucked seedlings I couldn’t recognize, only to find out later they were volunteers from the previous season. I’m learning, growing, and discovering. Gardening is one long experiment. Like life.
Reset/Refresh
We got a good rain. It’s refreshing like a new haircut. Everything looks different, including my perspective. New growth covers old while I figure out if any invaders have snuck in. I evaluate the seed beds and transplants to see if they’re more settled. My garden is reborn — replenished by the rain — reawakened with the sun.
New spirals of clematis tendrils and strawberry runners, an expansion of milkweed leaves and brave new pepper flowers. A squirrel wrestling a too-long branch from the palliative care maple and the lilac bush alive with bumble bees excited over the new blooms.
“Wake up” sings the world, “we’ve been waiting for this!”
And my spirit sings back, “I see you! I hear you! Thank you!”
Everybody has what they need today.
Timestamps & Mile Markers
The summer solstice was a few days ago, and I’m in denial that we’re already past the longest day of the year. How? Where did the time go (we ask every birthday, new year, full moon…). We humans mark time in creative ways — years in school, years of service, anniversaries — and when a date sneaks up on me like it did this year, it catches me off-guard. I can’t slow time, but holy smokes, when we get busy, I really do lose track of how quickly the weeks are flying by.
This time last year, we were celebrating Almostice. I made up this word to honor the longest day (or night) of the year, but with the flexibility of “celebrating” on whatever day I could fit it in. Could be on the actual solstice in summer or winter, or whenever I have a moment to catch my breath and pause. To stop. To notice. To check in.
Almostice, Solstice, and any particularly special day tells me that — time is passing. A countdown to an indefinite due date (an expiration date, more like). Except, none of us has any idea how long it’ll be. Some have a better approximation than others, but we can’t know how long we have to play before our round is up.
Once again, I find gardening helps me explain with a bit more clarity.
I’m participating in the One Seed, One Community initiative through my local garden club. We were given a packet of seeds and emailed a set of instructions. The seeds have sprouted — unfurling into spirals of flowers which later became pods. The snap peas were delicious. Crisp and sweet — straight from the vine or stir fried with other veggies and served to my family. What a delight <3
Before I was ready, the leaves and vines began to brown. HOW??!! Already?!?! Nooo…..
And I feel myself clinging to the past. To the delight of seeing the first seeds sprout, the taste of the first pod… And… I let myself hold the nostalgia. (Is that silly? To feel nostalgic for a time just a few weeks in the past? Maybe a little). But that holding, clinging, nostalgia tells me that it was an important time for me. I was thrilled to be part of a community movement, and the work continues as I let the remaining pods dry on the vine, which I’ll later collect and return to the seed cache (seed bank). The work is never done, and the seasons and cycles persist regardless of my clinging. Whether I’m anxiously anticipating the future and the next big storm, drought, fire, etc. or longing for a past that’s inaccessible — I bring myself back to here and now. This garden, this moment, as it is.
I’ll leave this with a moment of thanks. To the soil, sun, rain, and air that sustain this abundant garden (in the ground, and in my home).
Thank you.
Love,
Jessie
Here’s a song by Raye Zaragoza (I think I’ve shared it before): Joy Revolution :)
💚