Gardening season began in earnest on Sunday. It was time to start pulling off the cover of leaves that has blanketed the garden all winter. I went out with my rake and gloves and gently started to pull leaves away to reveal what was underneath. There I found onions and garlic trying to grow (God bless that garlic, this is its second try and it has no reason to be surviving!), as well as a full crop of oregano ready for the picking. It's quite an experience to pull up wet, rotting leaves and find green life. I found gorgeous, black, fresh smelling dirt and wonderfully plump earthworms, who each got a personal greeting.
I raked carefully because this time of year the last thing you want to do is muck around in wet soil. I walked carefully, too, doing my best to stay where I thought last year's paths lay beneath the carpet of leaves. I really did not want to step on one of my beds and compact the soil. I tenderly pulled away the leaves and found that I had, indeed, left up the strings that marked the boundaries of the beds. I was relieved to find them. Yet, as I worked on Sunday and again today, I discovered that I did not actually need those markers. As I moved about the garden my body always knew instinctively where to go. As I cut corners and moved the leaves into the bin and out into the pile, as I knelt to plant the spinach and lettuce, my feet always hit on the path and never once, as I learned, on the beds. This should not have surprised me. After all, how many hours have I spent maneuvering my way around that patch of ground, careful not to tread on little sprouts or avoiding the grasp of long branches? How often have I welcomed others in with the kind but firm instructions to please stay on the paths? This land that I have only worked twice before is already becoming part of me. I can only imagine the experience of people who work a piece of land that has been in their family for generations, such that the knowing it is passed down even in their DNA.
I dream of one day owning a larger piece of land. A place where I would know the trees and rivers and rocks and visiting creatures as well as I know my 20 x 22 foot plot. Perhaps some day. But for now, I am delighting in my relationship with this place. This place where I know the worms and soil and sunny spots and weeds and creatures who will soon come sniffing at the fence. This place that feeds me year after year. This place where I will once again put down roots. This land that I love.
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4 comments:
I'm so impressed by your gardening posts. I'm trying to start a garden myself--and by trying, I mean talking to Dey a lot about how I want to start one, and otherwise sitting around being totally intimidated by it. Around here you need to make raised beds because the soil is all clay, and I have very little idea how to go about it. But your garden posts are inspiring me! If you can make such an awesome garden I ought to make _something_ grow, right?
Miriam
Lovely as always. I look forward to visiting.
Beautiful post. And I must say I'm a bit jealous you're already able to get things in the ground outside. We got 2-3 inches of snow overnight - it's generally not "safe" to plant anything outside here til Memorial Day.
So please keep the garden posts coming! They'll help tide me over til I can dig in the dirt at my house.
Spinach can go in 6 weeks before the last average frost. As long as the ground is thawed out enough to poke a finger into and dried out enough not to get compacted while you are walking around. Some people actually plant spinach in the fall and let it over winter in the snow and then harvest in the spring. So, Lindean, as soon as that snow melts, get thee to the garden! :)
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