Hello from Holly.
We just got back from vacation. I didn’t tell you beforehand because of the Hamburglar. But now that we’re back let me give you a tour of the hot mess I found upon our return.
I don’t mean to hashtag humble brag, buuuuuuut…it would appear my garden prefers it when I’m not around.
It goes all crazy–cross-pollinating…throwing parties with after-parties…getting into stuff it shouldn’t be into, like Miracle-Gro.
No, pampas plume celosia, this is not a good spot for you to set up camp. Don’t make the neighbors call the cops. Again.
DMack (as my students used to call him) and I spent a good amount of time out there pulling up stuff and tossing it into the composter. The girls were (allegedly) asleep, and we were just chunking cucumbers big as your face into the bin.
It was the most pleasant of pleasant evenings: mild for a southern July, the hubs and I spending time together in the garden, and me almost mistaken for Malibu Barbie with my post-vacay glow. It was just about downright perfect, so of course, I heard it:
“Look at this gift you’ve been given, and you’re not even taking care of it,” said the subtle snarly voice inside my head. “What a waste,” it continued, drilling down to the core of shame and condemnation.
“Oh gosh, you’re right,” I started, “David must be wondering why he ever agreed to this…HEY. SOMETHING STINKS, AND IT’S NOT THE COMPOST.”
Nope, not buying it. I just spent a glorious week with my people…resting…reading…eating…trying to keep bitty E from throwing herself into random fountains…I will not be condemned for picking my people over my garden.
BOOM. Backhand. Back off subtle snarl, I picked my people, and it was great. I picked my people, and I hope they noticed.
But since they aren’t really tall enough yet to see the top of the kitchen counter, they probably didn’t, so that’s why I’m making a note of it here in this very fine public forum. Maybe one day when their hobbies extend beyond Disney princesses and playing it fast and loose in the personal hygiene department…maybe then they’ll notice. And may I pick them on that day, too.
Gardener friends, I wish the same for you. This hobby of ours is a time-consuming one. (Isn’t that part of the appeal??) And these vegetal babies can really feel just like…well…babies, who need nurture and care and time and the occasional coo. (Just mine?) May we all have the grace to know when it’s time to pick our actual people, take a breather, and let the garden go to pot.
Then, upon our return, when we re-engage, toss the cukes and tame the tomatoes, may the zinnias reward us most heartily, cause they never needed us much anyway.
And may we feel good about the time spent with the ones who really did need us right from the start.