I've come out to the greenhouse at 10:30 a.m. to admire the pole bean plants and how they endlessly seek an entwining, an interweaving. Three plants have crossed their borders and meandered over to the pots of others. No one seems to be complaining or protesting the breach.
I see also the work I need to do, and begin to lift the piles of leaves I've plucked and carelessly tossed on the floor. I've pulled these leaves because they have been scavenged by hungry creatures -- pests, I might call them, if I am without compassion for those who don't know my rules. They've left ugly holes -- displeased, I snip and toss. I don't stay with that feeling long because look at the beauty that remains. I move the pots around, directing them as if they were a choir, and I see how much stronger they are when they are gathered.
What's this? The parsley's coming up. It's the first thing that has worked in the special herb planter except for milk thistle, and I understand milk thistle will grow anywhere. I sip my lemon pribiotic tea. The kale looks good, cauliflower plants growing just fine, still drizzled with water from last night's bath. I discovered the "flower" setting on my sprinkler, and it creates a fine mist that makes the greenhouse feel like a jungle. The plants and I love it.
The gardener can't sit long... so much weeding to do, and the floor to be swept. It's a stone floor with a couple of old yoga mats for comfort. The nasturtium is coming up --- I planted that because slugs are supposed to prefer it to my cabbage plants. Several small pots I think hold beet seedlings -- I plant so much I forget what I have.
A mint green painted metal angel created by a friend named Provie Musso, years ago, has become a pot decoration to accompany me. I wonder what has become of Provie? Ah, there she is:
Provie Musso Finds Prayer and Peace
Whoops, I've spilled a pot, and soil has tumbled out. The choir of beans does not curse me or resent me for it.The angel does not withhold its affection, grumble, or give me the silent treatment. That would interfere with its healing work. I am learning much from today's sermon...
The red chair with its red cushion is the cardinal here...
(painting by Alfred Charles Weber)
and the rusty headed fellow with golden legs might be an ordained wasp. If the back row beans, the ones who ended up with the prized location in which to climb up the lattice, are gossiping among themselves, they at least have the good grace to do it with subtlety.
If you have had enough of this anthropomorphism, you might go watch the news instead... come back when you want communion.
Blessings,
Tamara
I see also the work I need to do, and begin to lift the piles of leaves I've plucked and carelessly tossed on the floor. I've pulled these leaves because they have been scavenged by hungry creatures -- pests, I might call them, if I am without compassion for those who don't know my rules. They've left ugly holes -- displeased, I snip and toss. I don't stay with that feeling long because look at the beauty that remains. I move the pots around, directing them as if they were a choir, and I see how much stronger they are when they are gathered.
What's this? The parsley's coming up. It's the first thing that has worked in the special herb planter except for milk thistle, and I understand milk thistle will grow anywhere. I sip my lemon pribiotic tea. The kale looks good, cauliflower plants growing just fine, still drizzled with water from last night's bath. I discovered the "flower" setting on my sprinkler, and it creates a fine mist that makes the greenhouse feel like a jungle. The plants and I love it.
The gardener can't sit long... so much weeding to do, and the floor to be swept. It's a stone floor with a couple of old yoga mats for comfort. The nasturtium is coming up --- I planted that because slugs are supposed to prefer it to my cabbage plants. Several small pots I think hold beet seedlings -- I plant so much I forget what I have.
A mint green painted metal angel created by a friend named Provie Musso, years ago, has become a pot decoration to accompany me. I wonder what has become of Provie? Ah, there she is:
Provie Musso Finds Prayer and Peace
Whoops, I've spilled a pot, and soil has tumbled out. The choir of beans does not curse me or resent me for it.The angel does not withhold its affection, grumble, or give me the silent treatment. That would interfere with its healing work. I am learning much from today's sermon...
The red chair with its red cushion is the cardinal here...
(painting by Alfred Charles Weber)
and the rusty headed fellow with golden legs might be an ordained wasp. If the back row beans, the ones who ended up with the prized location in which to climb up the lattice, are gossiping among themselves, they at least have the good grace to do it with subtlety.
If you have had enough of this anthropomorphism, you might go watch the news instead... come back when you want communion.
Blessings,
Tamara
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