April
16
Without
even a flicker of guilt, I left the chaotic jumble of unpacked boxes
in the kitchen and spent a sunny afternoon in my flower garden this
week. I needed to clear thoughts that had become as scattered as the
disorder on the table, and knew exactly where I'd find clarity and
peace: on my knees in the Church of Dirt and Flowers. As I planted
red and purple anemones among the newly flowering tulips and
daffodils, I could feel the anxiety drift away. It's nearly
impossible to hold onto stress when I'm holding a new plant in my
cupped hands, ready to set it gently into prepared soil.
As
I scooted backwards into the next planting area, I imagined making a
new bed of “Blue Diamond” and white “Guardian” delphiniums,
to add their clear colors and lacy greenery to the garden this
summer. Half an hour later, I'd planted and watered them in a spot
where they would stand out among the nearby dusty rose potentilla and
purple shades of oriental poppies. Then I rose slowly, because my
fragile knees are much older than my spirit, and stepped onto the
stone path that winds through the garden. Where would a calming froth
of white-flowered “sun roses” be most welcome? Yes, right there,
between the coreopsis, with its red-tinged, yellow petals and the
lavender Canterbury bells. Part of gardening for me is making
pictures, mixing colors and textures of flowers and leaves, while
knowing that nothing will ever be – or should ever be – perfect.
As
I worked, several neighbors passed by and stopped for brief visits.
One offered a reassuring, misery-loves- company story about her own
pea patch, which failed to germinate, just as mine did. We compared
notes and realized we had probably planted out rebellious peas on the
same sunny day – just before a hodgepodge of rain, snow, and cold
weather hit Moscow. I also told her about a column I'd read by Susan
Mulvihill in the Spokane newspaper. Ms. Mulvihill started her pea
plants indoors this season, she wrote, to prevent neighborhood crows
from plucking them out of her garden as soon as the peas started to
sprout. In our raised beds, my husband had noticed a couple of crows
hanging around the newly planted peas, Those birds wily birds were
all but polishing their halos in an attempt to look innocent of pea
thievery. So maybe, my neighbor and I decided, this one wasn't our
fault. (The next day, I bought bird-discouraging garden netting and
will spread it over the raised beds immediately after I've planted
the next round of vegetables, including another packet of peas.)
Throughout
the late afternoon, a flock of finches, many of them
bright-feathered, twitted around the bird feeder over my head as I
worked. I felt joy and thankfulness that they didn't seem afraid of
me. The finches also apparently didn't feel the need to decorate my
head as I knelt in the soil below them, as they have done several
times to Benjamin BadKitten. I still remember him climbing onto my
lap a few summers ago, mewing piteously, as I inspected the glob of
bird poop on his brown and black head. I had to shampoo him twice
that low-comedy day. After all traces of his first humiliation were
gone, my BadKitten returned to the same hunting spot under the bird
feeder, and was bombed again. (And this cat thinks he has the mental
capacity to run for president.)
By
5:30 that afternoon, my knees were creaking insistently, but I
decided I had another half hour of energy left. I put away my
planting tools and used a sturdy rake to scratch up and loosened the
top layer of soil, and then hauled and spread a light layer of
compost over the newly prepped areas. Later in the week, I
scatter-planted sweet William, Canterbury bells, delphinium, poppy,
and hollyhock seeds in those patches, hoping for an informal, cottage
garden look this summer. By the time I'd washed off the clinging bits
of compost and garden dirt, I had also washed away the last traces of
stress. I was ready to face the kitchen jumble with an organized
mind.
No comments:
Post a Comment