And that’s something the dogs don't seem to understand is an excellent
excuse for postponing our morning walk. They sit at the bottom of the
stairs, gazing expectantly upward. I can feel their eyes through my
office door.
Rain, even a light rain, is a blessing for those of us who garden.
I make the attempt, as I have every year for the past fifteen, since I have
owned my own small patch of dirt, to connect with the earth. In some
places, I admit, it is control as well as connection, as I try to shape small
areas with colors and scents that please me.
Mostly, I want a personal, visceral connection to what I
eat. There's quite a bit of connection actually, considering how small the
garden is, and how little of my food it actually supplies.
But it's not about that now as much as it is about the fact, the
realization, that most everything in that garden grew from seed I planted,
tended, watered, and watched over. I've yet to tire of watching a
seedling push through, seeing a pea tendril or bean vine wrap itself just so
around a branch I placed for just that purpose.
I have several pairs of garden gloves that watch me from the fence
I placed them on to dry sometime in April. I can't remember to put them
on because I want the feel of the
earth sucking the moisture from my hands. I want the calluses, and the
permanent stains under my nails from black dirt. They are badges of honor
in the world I strive to belong to.
The land I cultivate now is a fraction of what I started with when
I first came to Virginia. I had grand designs of a garden that would feed
us through the year, of orchards with fruit and nut trees, wild food gathered
and placed in gardens within easy reach. I built 8 inches of rich black
soil on top of land scraped to red clay by builders. I planted
blueberries, elderberries, apple and pear trees; scoped out wild raspberries
and blackberries and patches were edible mushrooms grew.
 |
| young apple and pear trees |
But it was too much.
It had always been too much for me
physically, and although I knew that I kept pushing.
I've always done that, pushed beyond my limits. What I'm
starting to learn is that my limits are changing. Not only starting to
learn, but starting to accept that
fact.
We live in town now, and the section of land I tried to bring
under control is miniscule. Most of the hard work was done by the owners
before me, who left me vines and bushes, trees and shrubs fruiting and mature.
I'm two thirds steward and maybe a third builder. My empire of
abundance is managed by someone else now.
But that’s cool, most of the
time. Because I put the same love and care and intensity in to my tiny garden
as I did my huge one. I’m realizing that it’s not about how much dirt I have,
it’s that I have dirt I can plunge my
hands into. And I am starting to believe
I really can get the same amount of enjoyment and peace from any garden I can connect with. I'm
learning to be okay with what I have.
 |
| mature blueberry plants! |
concord grape vine
 |
| asian pear tree |
 |
| ripe gooseberries. I have always wanted to grow gooseberries. |
I’ve a small something else I’ve grown from seed, in a manner of
speaking. I’m referring, of course, to
Coyote Summer. I have an acquaintance
from college who has a book that’s garnered national attention.
Sometimes I look at his posts on Facebook about already being booked for the whole next school year for personal visits,
I read the reviews from major newspapers, and I’m jealous. And yet I don’t begrudge Chris his
awards. He works hard, harder than I
ever could at publicity. I couldn’t
begin to attempt his schedule. He has a
big book, with a big publisher, and he’s earned it.
Sometimes I look at his posts on Facebook about already being booked for the whole next school year for personal visits,
I have a small book with a small publisher and a small amount of
energy. This week I’m not talking in
front of six classes of schoolchildren.
I’m talking to a small local book club.
And you know what? I’m finally
learning that’s what I can do. And it’s enough.
