I think I sowed these. I can’t for the life of me remember what they are (assuming I sowed them.) Any guesses? They grow in single spires until they’re too tall and then start to bend near the ground.
Category Archives: Not Vegetables
Say hello.
Sometime when I wasn’t looking this wee little blog acquired more than fifty followers.
Hello!
I’d like to get to know you quiet ones a little better (and you not so quiet ones even more!) SO how about sharing as much or as little as you like in the comments here?
If a prompt will help you, let’s see…
Robots or ninjas?
Sandwich or salad?
Stinkiest plant?
Garden or cook?
And for fun, here’s a happy Buddha perched precariously by two careful little hands among the cilantro-hopefully-turning-coriander.
(If you’re looking for the cute baby butt, it has been cropped out for future-older-kiddo privacy concerns.)
Recovery.
There are so many things people don’t talk about. So many things unexpected that needn’t be. Before becoming pregnant I didn’t know of any possible normal oddities other than nausea, stretch marks, and swelling, and I honestly thought nausea was always in the morning.
It wasn’t until I was pregnant that I learned that it could be nothing or (as in my case) all day every day for months. Thankfully, I was spared stretch marks and the worst of the swelling. I learned about hives though, and bloody noses. Heartburn and insomnia. More effects that the forgetfulness of hormones has erased in the creation of rewired brain power to be more alert for saber tooth tigers and less inclined toward complex thought.
Recovery, too, isn’t discussed. What is discussed surrounds sleep (or the lack thereof.) Let me say this: it’s not the sleep. It’s the feeling like you were run over by a truck. It’s the recompression of your abdominal wall, the realigning of your intestines, and literal loss of an organ, and the contractions to return your uterus to its usual operating size. Meanwhile is the swelling and the leaking, the hemorrhage scare and the mastitis scare, the dripping pools of sweat and the shivers so strong your uterus hurts.
It’s all of that, and the fact that none of us either know or remember or are comfortable providing actual help.
So let me say this: if you’re visiting a new parent (and if the baby isn’t three months, they count, and if the baby is difficult, they always count), remember three things: bring, do, and leave.
Bring something. A covered dish, a muffin, a lemonade. It doesn’t matter, just bring something.
Do something. Casually start folding the towels on the couch you’re sitting next to while you chat. Clear the dishes from the coffee table and run the dish washer. Ask if you can take out the trash.
Leave: Unless you were invited for hours or are seriously cleaning house and cooking, after about thirty minutes, you should start to excuse yourself. Maybe you’re risking the only nap the parents might get that day. Maybe maybe maybe. If they want you to stay longer, they’ll say so.
Some where along the way we’ve lost much of the knowledge we had as a village. We’ve lost the elders’ wisdom being shared and listened to. We’ve lost the tribal knowledge of breastfeeding, newborn care, and maternal care. I believe, resoundingly, that we can find it again if we only, each of us, find our voices.
Sideways shift.
My main duty these days is laying on my side and not doing things. At least two more weeks of cooking are ideal and my body and this baby appear to be plotting their own plan.
A slow soak of sunshine is necessary to keep the stir-crazies at bay, during which I plot my tender snail’s pace loop about the gardens.
Somethings are larger than they appear…
And sometimes I’m glad I have more weeds.
The carrots are looking more carroty.
The garlic are a tangled tussle.
This leek came up all on its own. Having never successfully sown leeks, I can only marvel at its persistence in overcoming my interference.
A kind neighbor gifted us some fig twigs.
And in their ancient wisdom (the seeds are well over five years old and have yet to survive my best attempts) the Alyssum has joined the party.
They nearly bounce.
The Velcro weed is allowed to exist, first of all because no one has had time (or medical clearance) to mow. Second of all, because it makes tiny little white flowers that the butterflies are enjoying, and third, because the mosquito hawks swarm in it for some unknown reason.
Wakeful trees
The rain came in the night. The windows sounding protest against drops as hard as hail. The lightning more witness to the scene. Drink, earth, drink, the thoughts beneath my inner voice coaxed. The thunder resounded, responded. Sleep, child, sleep.
The pecan sleeps.
The Arizona Ash stirs.
Dig in.
Sometimes I have a day. As everyone does, somedays. Today was one of those days. And on those days, whether or not the weather is game, a good sweat with a shovel solves most things.
With the sweat and the shovel off limits a few months yet, I took to the fingertips. One fresh, soft, new tuft of grass at a time. Into the bucket with you! With you, and also with you. And the calm came and the methodical was found and all was well again soon enough.
Shadows cast.
The roses have buds. Branches glow, casting brisk lines. Cranes blot the sky as the earth sheds the day. The seasons have changed and the world feels crisp, crunchy.
The sog battles the snap underfoot. Giving with one step, resisting the next, I feel the transition dance through my soul.
My timing is off. The beat, I’ve lost. I am not the only one out of sequence.
It’s time I pause to join once again in the rhythm of things.
Those we do not speak of…
There are things we don’t speak of. We don’t show our fear, our pain, our weakness. Rarely does anyone admit to the rules out loud, but they’re there. Some days they’re louder. The demand for silence deafening such that the heart can hardly feel.
But then you’re alone again.
The silence washes over you. The fear, the pain, the weakness within…they hunger for the space and wander into the void slowly, blindly. Murmuring, whispering, their voices are found. The first wail pierces the sky opening within and the pain is your only clue – you’ve hit your knees as the rain begins to fall.
I admire those who live beyond so many rules. I work on finding where and how to traverse such terrain, so unstable to my sense of balance. Because sometimes, often times, the break and the mess is exactly the strength and precisely the beauty.
Meeting myself once more.
I can see your evidence. The soil is mounded there where once was even. The rounded curve of the flesh engorged and overripe through overrun neglect. Even after harvest there’s no return. The edges of the bed bow wider now from the deluge and the churning. The base of the boards have weakened through the damp days and hot nights. Even now, four seasons round, the body morphs and your affects are visible naked to others’ eyes.
Never again the same as the barren ‘scape before. With each season a new introduction. With each turn another getting-to-know-you period. You know yourself through brutely forced consciousness but are as of yet unaware.
I hold awareness for us both. I tend. I feed. I sow. I dig deep and I find more than I knew I could in the depths of discovery. Time and again the necessity is met from stores unknown until a hopefully never known future where they run dry.
plumdirt 