Chile.

“It’s chilly out, Mama, did you know Chile is a country?”

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Medley

How many foods do you see?

Soil Blocks, Take 2

I’d always saved the plastic pots and trays from purchased transplants.

Save them. Wash them. Scrub them. Rinse them. Sanitize them. Dry them. Fill them. Sow them.

Then they’d break.

Recycle bin. And hope. Hope they’d actually be recycled.

I put the brakes on all that.

Sharecrow.

A scarecrow, in a field of corn, to keep the birds at bay.

A sharecrow, in rows of beans, to feed them come what may.

I’m reading a book. I’ve forgotten the name in my currently foggy (“thick as peanut butter!” / “you mean pea soup!” / “you eat what you like and I’ll eat what I like!” ) brain. It tells of learning of farming from observation, documentation, and old timers.

One old timer the author learned from spoke of feeding the crows when the corn seedlings were small, so they left the sprouts alone until they were big enough that the crows left them be.

An unintentional parallel in my garden, currently.

Again.

Again, it says.

Too much. Again.

Did I do that? Or was it done?

I’m not practiced in talking about it. Sometimes, my body rebels. Or breaks down. Or screams. Sometimes, it flares into stinging and aches, walking oddly and thinking foggy.

So the seeds sit unsown. The plans lapse unknown. And I try and practice sharing that I’m human, and no, I won’t be eating that, running there, wearing those, or brimming with the patience and clarity we are both accustomed to.

Instead, here’s me.

That’s hard, for me, to be.