I’m currently reading Closing the Food Gap and it’s lighting new fires while dousing others. I keep interrupting my husband’s quiet to read aloud an outrageous statistic here or a shocking history there. Education is not always comfortable.
Twice so far, it’s mentioned that in community garden the most important word is community. I’ve stewed on this a bit. I didn’t join a community garden this round for the community. I joined for the soil to soothe my soul.
When I’d joined in 2012 (same community garden, different plots), I had joined for both the community and the garden. I’d been chastised, looked down upon, and otherwise made to feel wholly unwelcome and less-than during that experience with the community part of the community garden.
So this time, I signed up hoping to garden in peace, quiet, and solitude.
I’ve met more neighboring gardeners in the last six weeks than the entire year I was here last time. Each has been friendly, kind, and generally also hoping to part ways shortly for their own peace and solitude.
Yesterday, I spotted this “Hi” left on the far side of the path between my garden and a neighbor’s I’ve yet to meet. It is one of the main paths in and out of the walled garden. A butterfly had alit beside it.
Yes. I hear you. Community gardening, indeed. (I added an ! before heading home for the day, lacking sufficient supplies for a suitable reply.)
The first tomatoes of the year lasted roughly an hour before DH had a snack.
“Would you count to twenty and then do the same for the next tall plant and the next one?”
“Right here, mama?”
I hope these little bean flowers make food before the heat causes them to keel over.
Not everything out of place is unwanted in its place.
I’ve been weeding by type. With so many weeds, weeding by section wasn’t the name of the game for me.
That one. That one will spread like the dickens deep under ground if it continues to gather sunlight unchecked…
And then the next visit:
And you! You’ll go to seed in another two days whilst your neighbors will slowly crawl.
Not you, little radish, not last week, not yesterday, but today… yes, you.
I struggle to get over there like I mean to.
But I have to change my shoes… and remember what to bring… and convince myself to put on “somscream.”
Then a trip across the state (don’t laugh, it’s a big state) and it’s been ages.
The squash didn’t mind.
I keep telling myself to refresh my tomato pruning knowledge and actually prune them this year. (I likely won’t.)
Just like I ignored the row spacing
instructions suggestions for the cowpeas.
Again, the weeds grew just as, if not more voraciously. I am not accustomed to this. It makes me miss my carefully-crafted, cautiously-curated, mostly weed-free gardens of yore.
Yet I remind myself to be grateful for the bountiful fruitful glorious loam that is this soil. The decades of organic gardening, tending, and watering – even if the Bermuda and torpedo and other such abhorrent invaders have yet to be kept at bay.
Anyone know the name of this invader?
We’re getting a good soak. A strong rinse. A fast-flowing chatter of drops gushing down gutters. Stampedes beyond boundaries of wet, laden, droopy wishes. Pouring over edges not previously considered.
And then the sun winks through.
My turn! My turn! Me me me! scream the weeds.
Yes, you, too, little Lives, I reply. But goodbye.