Hard Work

Well it's hard work keeping a garden, at least when you're doing everything else in life that needs to be done, like working and cleaning house and shopping, etc. I did get over to the garden and turned over a swatch of the plot on Friday. It wasn't weedier than anyone else's—so I'm sure I wasn't the only one getting a letter. I think the timing is good to see what is there for the winter—some beets, some chard, some kale. I dug a few potatoes and picked the last of the tomatoes. It's really not so hard—I just make it hard in my mind. I'm like that, resisting; actually I'm kind of beat.

I've been thinking about this a bit—my own resistance makes things hard. This is not just for gardening, it is also for making art. I have a resistance that makes things hard. I'm wondering if it comes from my childhood when I was made to do things I didn't want to do—like go to work with my dad to stuff hundreds and hundreds of envelopes—when I really wanted to be playing with my friends in the sunny park. I wanted to be tending my own little garden in the back yard. Yes, just that. Or riding my bike.

Okay, so perhaps I have a bad work ethic—although everyone thinks of me as so hardworking, and really I'm pretty much non-stop. What the hey? So it's an attitude—give up my resistance and see what happens next. That's my goal.

So today again, I'll work a little more on the plot. I'd like to find some leaves to top off the garden with for winter. And some chicken manure. I think I know where I can get both of these things. A strong man to help me in the garden would be nice. Or a strong woman, makes no never mind. But I'll probably do it myself. That's just me.

Talk soon, Flower