Garden Tales

While in the garden yesterday, I heard about a hydroponic solution that makes broccoli grown like crazy, and a local college that doesn't hire experienced writers, only those with degrees, and a weed in the nightshade family—I don't recall the name but it's not lambs quarters, that's not edible. Lambs quarters is edible and tastes similar to spinach. There is chickweed and sorrel and many other edible plants that most consider to be weeds, abundant for the taking in the garden. If the garden is properly rendered, weeds can live in peace alongside cultivated plants. Is this also true with people?

I'm going to say no, not if you want to be happy that is. I'm going to say that to have great love, one must let all weeds die away and open the heart to something greater—some beautiful vibrant plant that nourishes consistently. I've realized that my heart is a convenient heart, not a heart that risks great love. Why? Because, I was taught to catch hold of any branch that would hold my weight as I was being washed downstream. A skinny, half-hearted branch will keep you from drowning—it's the sturdy branch that will allow you to climb free of the flood. Of course one will catch hold of anything when in a state of panic. I forgive myself for this.

In the garden, there is no panic. There sometimes is the overwhelm of the gardener; it would be easy to call it quits when the soil is poor. I will not. There is a book Secrets to Great Soil by Elizabeth Stell that looks good. And my friend said to layer leaves and manure—and my neighbor suggested blood meal. I hope this doesn't come from letting blood. Remember those movies from junior high where the villagers let the yak's blood and then drank it. Right there in front of the poor yak. Yesterday I had my blood let by my ex and then he drank it right in front of me. He was smiling the whole while. I will no longer go near his village. Yaks are vulnerable to type of hedonistic behavior.

Anyway, I picked some nice tomatoes and a zucchini yesterday. I think I'll be getting serious soon about turning over the weedy spots and piling on the leaves. I have a friend who could give me leaves come fall, as the garden itself will have few. It is pretty open with the exception of the row of plum trees to the north, which will be ripening soon. What a lark. Fresh plums to dry.

Happy gardening,

Flower

Letting Go

I was reading this morning in a book called Radical Acceptance: Embracing Your Life With The Heart of a Buddha by Tara Brach, PH.D, and she said that if we pause when things are not going well and just be with what is going on inside, we can continue, perhaps in a different frame of mind. Calmer for sure, but also without running the show. Letting things unfold.

I am pausing right now, being with the pain I've developed in my wrist from overuse and also setting aside my fear of moving the rest of my belongings from the ex-house to storage here in town. What this means is my life there really is over. I'm so attached. That isn't the Buddhist way. Non-attachment is what one strives for. I'm new at this so have not much insight to offer about it. I do know that in writing if I don't try and don't think too hard, my writing improves by leaps. And with the garden, if I don't try, the weeds take over.

So how do we let go. Just move on. My ex once said he could move on at the drop of a hat. It was in a conversation after we'd moved to the coast from Spokane. I didn't know this was his modis operandi, I thought it was just a conversation—but I've learned that he has a way of turning his back on things, just going on without the other, even while in relationship. This isn't what I'm talking about, not this type of letting go. Letting go means being completely present with what is before one's eyes, with one's experience, both physical and emotional. It means to be like the garden.

Speaking of the garden, I'm officially announcing it is fall in the PNW and it is time for fall things to happen. Debbie of Rainyside Gardener said to cover my plot with leaves and then manure and next year my soil will be much improved. So I guess I'll have to find some leaves and manure and it would help if we were to have an Indian summer. I'm wondering if that name is politically correct, that perhaps we should be saying Native American Summer, which is when leaves turn orange and the sun is hot. It is delicious to be sure. And smells good with all the rotting fruit Is this something that happens everywhere? We had Indian Summer's in Spokane. But sometimes the leaves turn a little yellow and brown and the rains start and they fall and nothing, no more flash in the pan. Just let go. Watch it all unfold.

Okay, the alarm just went off and the grandbaby will be here shortly. So happy gardening. And happy life.

Flower

Endings

And just like that I thought it was fall and I turned nostalgic, thinking of warm clothing (C. has on his navy-blue sweatshirt) and down comforters and hours and hours of darkness and good books and tea--and no mate. Not that I have to have a mate, I mean there are plenty of folks who seem perfectly happy living alone. I, on the the other hand, have been married most of my adult life. I believe in marriage, of cooking together, sleeping together, crying together, figuring out the tough things to get through, going through the births and deaths together. Now I must go it alone. Woman pioneer. And even though I have friends, the married friends infrequently invite the singles to the table. Why? is my question. Is the ending so obvious and painful in a single person that it's not a feeling to introduce it to the couple? Or is it some old policy, the matron, the old-maid, the...

But it isn't fall. The temps are supposed to surge into the 80s. More high pressure and I will take a trip to eastern Washington and get cooked to the bones. Hot! Dry! Spicy smell of pine pitch. And the garden--arugh! The beans are yellow, the spinach and chard munched off and two of the tomatoes--the other beans never sprouted. Arugh! And again the bright side--the spinach was fabulously delicious, as was the broccoli raab.

So a plan for the fall--when it eventually arrives, tons of manure. Now to figure out where to get it. I know I can't do the wheelbarrow work myself. I'll have to have it delivered. Or buy bags. Lots of bags of chicken manure. Once I used pigeon manure--oh it really stunk--but it really worked. I have a neighbor with chickens, perhaps I'll go knock on her door. Get busy amending in the areas that are lying fallow.

Okay then, do things end or just compost and make things richer. I'm voting for the second one. Things don't actually end, just change form.

Ciao!

Winter, again?

Photo: Last night's sunset down at the Alaska Ferry Terminal. (This isn't the Alaskan Ferry--it's a regular ferry that's being repaired)

This is supposed to be a week of warm weather—upper 70s and perhaps reaching the 80s. That is warm for the PNW. Seasonal temperatures. But the wind came up at sundown and during the night, after the shorts-and-sweater-day, the wind howled. I had had my bedroom window open, because my condo gets so hot. It's on the corner facing south. And there is no air conditioning, not that I would use air if I had it. I rarely use air in my car. I do, however, breath air. Lots of air. Except for when I'm afraid. And that actually applies to me right now, but that isn't what I'm getting at. Not my fear, but the weather. This is a gardening column, after all.

It's cold, is what I'm getting at. I had to shut the window in the night. My cat curled right next to my side; he never does that. I put on a sweater and pulled the second pillow against the non-cat side. This a.m. I'm seeing clouds, not dark dreary winter clouds, but gray clouds that came on the wind. Arctic wind. All the windows are closed.

So now I'm here with a hot cup of coffee, thinking about gardening and life. I had to move out of my house when my husband quit speaking to me. I decided today, that if I'd stayed in my house, I wouldn't have had such strong feelings of losing an entire life. Our belongings are part of what tells us we have history. We can look at things and say, I bought that back when gas was cheap. Or, like yesterday, I washed my down sleeping bag (could have used it last night) that I bought in 1970 after I got married for the first time. Jack and I bought all the latest and expensive hiking equipment. It was our plan to live off the land, to forage for berries and roots and to fish. We lost a lot of weight and ended up eating big meals on the weekends when we worked at the resort at Priest Lake. The survival manual I was reading at the time said a person would starve to death on just fish. One must eat fat. Well, we hardly even caught any fish. It was an exercise that had people talking—and laughing behind our backs. But we were into living off the land and were for years, growing our own food, raising chickens for eggs, goats for milk (see Storey's Guide to Raising Dairy Goats: Breeds, Care, Dairying. I'd actually like to do that again. A little plot of land to keep me would be lovely.

So my garden is growing slowly. I watered yesterday, didn't stick around because I had multiple things to do, and the garden is puny. It's depressing. Like I said, it needs manure. The beans are up, looking a little spindly and yellow. One had his first set of leaves bit off. Deer? Bird? Actually I'm not optimistic about this garden. It's the soil, or maybe ley lines. Do you know about the electromagnetic lines that wrap the earth? If they cross where you sleep, you can get sick. Just move your bed. A good diviner can help you with this. I'm a good diviner. Call me, okay?

So ley lines are natural courses of energy that crisscross the earth. Where they intersect is powerful, and useful in some natural way that I'm not familiar with. All I know is things don't work as well where they cross, too much energy I suppose. Animals seem to be drawn to this extra energy. A cat will curl up in it. It's possible that my garden is situated in a crossing of these lines. If that is true, I think it will need more than fertilizer to remedy the problem. First I'll try some chicken …..

This wooey moment has been brought to you by: Flower Power.
Ciao!

Fallow

They say it's good to let the soil go fallow. To let it rest. Everyone needs a time of rest, so why not let the soil rest? During a time of change, rest is particularly important. Americans are more driven than folks in other parts of the world--we don't get the afternoon rest, like they do. It would be interesting to find out how those folks in say, Italy, view their gardens; is the garden like a person and the Italian farmer says: it's time to rest, dear. You've worked hard enough. Perhaps here in the US, the farmers says, work harder, damn you, I'll get more out of you by adding this chemical fertilizer. More, you hear.

My plot has lain fallow for some time. And now I wonder if it will really produce a good crop. It's slow and even with peat, somewhat clumpy. I guess not rushing it will be the way to go. I'm in no hurry, although I'd like a lot of kale and chard by fall, so I can have greens over the winter. Here in Bellingham, gas is now 4.25 and it's reflected at the grocery store now. All that hauling food here and there is costing a lot of money. If my garden produces well, then I can supplement my food budget. I guess I had this same thought back in the late 70s in Yakima. Grow food and put it by. I have a great book that I used to rely on called "Putting It Buy." It taught me how to make pickles and to can peaches and cherries and pears. It taught me drying methods for fruit--of course, Yakima was overwhelmed by fruit and frequently I could pick up a box of slightly bruised, odd-sized peaches for $3.00. Makes my mouth water to think about it.

Well, perhaps my next effort in the garden is to get some good composted manure and layer it between the plants. I've done this before in other gardens and it does improve the soil. Once I added bags of pigeon manure and the corn grew 8ft tall. The neighbor came over and when he saw it said, "Man, that blows my mind."

To mind-blowing crops!

Flower