I like to garden.
I mean, I'm not a full-on fool about it; I'm what you'd call a "sweet-spot gardener."
I garden when it is cool, usually in the evenings.
I'm generally not gonna go out and mess in the garden when it is hot as Hades.
But I enjoy growing plants and flowers.
There is something very Zen about it.
To garden means to be hopeful and to be rewarded for that hopefulness when you see young shoots peek out of the ground after winter.
To garden means to be willing to let go because there are some plants you can't save.
You have to watch and accept whatever nature intends.
To garden means to surround yourself with beauty.
A beauty that is delicate and hardy at the same time.
A beauty that isn't perfect or matchy-matchy.
But last night, as I tried to cover my plants with sheets and towels and blankets in preparation for a hard frost, I felt the absurdity of tending to plants, trying to keep a virus at bay, and generally living life.
It all seemed so pointless.
The wind just kept blowing.
Gusting, really.
At one point, while trying to cover my Japanese maple that had been hit already by an earlier frost, the blanket blew up and covered ME from head to toe.
And I just stood there, both enraged by the wind and sad.
Because I was trying my darndest to take care, to protect what I could, to keep something from being harmed and dying.
And nature was making it not just difficult but impossible.
I felt like a character in a Samuel Beckett play.
I still did it because I couldn't just do nothing.
I mean, I'm not a full-on fool about it; I'm what you'd call a "sweet-spot gardener."
I garden when it is cool, usually in the evenings.
I'm generally not gonna go out and mess in the garden when it is hot as Hades.
But I enjoy growing plants and flowers.
There is something very Zen about it.
To garden means to be hopeful and to be rewarded for that hopefulness when you see young shoots peek out of the ground after winter.
To garden means to be willing to let go because there are some plants you can't save.
You have to watch and accept whatever nature intends.
To garden means to surround yourself with beauty.
A beauty that is delicate and hardy at the same time.
A beauty that isn't perfect or matchy-matchy.
But last night, as I tried to cover my plants with sheets and towels and blankets in preparation for a hard frost, I felt the absurdity of tending to plants, trying to keep a virus at bay, and generally living life.
It all seemed so pointless.
The wind just kept blowing.
Gusting, really.
At one point, while trying to cover my Japanese maple that had been hit already by an earlier frost, the blanket blew up and covered ME from head to toe.
And I just stood there, both enraged by the wind and sad.
Because I was trying my darndest to take care, to protect what I could, to keep something from being harmed and dying.
And nature was making it not just difficult but impossible.
I felt like a character in a Samuel Beckett play.
I still did it because I couldn't just do nothing.
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