The tomatoes I replanted when they outgrew the greenhouse are now rotting greenly on the vine. I figure there is a metaphor there.
The garden was never cultivated. I never cultivated the garden.
The coriander sprouted – then flowered, and quickly went to seed. The beets were too crowded to thrive, and the sweet potatoes sent shoots where there was no soil in which to land.
I’ve no idea what’s up with the strawberry plants, with their wide, lily pad-like leaves, but no berries.
I’ve brought the angel wing into the house now that the temperatures have dropped below 15C. The perennials are dying. Or going dormant.
The honeysuckle has twined its way far past the trellis I put up in May. It’s choking the thuja, but blooming with such a fragrance that I can’t bring myself to cut it back.
I do have hope. There’s the winter to read, and to learn. And there is something to be said for learning one’s place in the making of things.
There is a personal grief in private failures, in every missed deadline – every lost hour.
And a communal mourning for every collective dream deferred.
I’ve been meditating on impermanence. I even learned to spell the word correctly. But accepting that things are always in motion is easier than accepting the futility of our determinations with regard to where that motion will take us.
My circle of influence is tiny.
But I smile at the woman I pass in the grocery store and hope there are ripples of influence. Maybe that is all any of us can do. And maybe this is everything?
This, and the daily attention required to cultivate what we plant?
I spent Saturday brooding a mood of discontent.
Fortunately the shell is thin and cracks easily –
I ran in the evening.
And the forest is always a place for sloughing what’s become useless
and for new growth.
We are wild things, after all.
Cultivation is a balancing act.