|Photo by Kyla|
This is no doubt because the garden I am walking around in is full of time that plays out toward next summer, and I see where the new daylilies will be/are blooming, and what the herbs look and smell like and how the soil grows richer by the day. People look and wonder what it is I'm so excited about. After all, teeny plants, some older ones kind of sick looking, bare spots, rocks under which bulbs lurk -- that's all that's visible for the most part. They can't see, like I can, the seed packets waiting to be wintersown and how the not-yet-developed new beds will be full of sunflowers and agastache and blue flax.
A few flowers are blooming strong right now, sure. But how long can you focus on one or two blossoms, when the mosquitoes are biting?
Everyone does marvel at the compost, though. There is so much! Wow! What a neat system! Well, yes, it is, and I wish I had about three or four times as much.
I moved an old rose yesterday, from the shaded side of the yard, into a spot I'd prepared in the sunniest area. I feel confident the rose will make it and will thrive over there; it's a Dr. Huey which is an old rootstock variety that all the new roses get grafted onto, because it is so sturdy. Even in dry shade, it bloomed generously. I expect it will be happier in the sun.
At one point digging it up I was on my knees, coaxing it with all my might, as gently as I could while at the same time using all my muscle power, into the trug which I then used to drag it across the yard. (No wheelbarrow.)
This is all really happening, and it is so damn symbolic it's almost corny and embarrassing. I do feel that the world is in similar shape. On the surface there is trouble (no I am not going to go into detail) and how could anyone even say things are getting better? I don't say that, but I have this sense just as I do in the garden of a rich stream of time and what lies just up ahead, what is emerging in a way that's still pretty hard to notice.
And there are definitely times when I have to wrestle in the mud and muck, with gentleness and great force at the same time, acquiring wounds, crawling across an expanse, pulling a heavy weight, bleeding -- in order to re-arrange something important and get it right.
When I moved the rose, which I had been planning to do for months, I did it on the spur of the moment because it felt like the right time. The weather was perfect, not too hot, nicely overcast, and magically -- even though it was really hard work -- I was barely tired afterward, not sore, not wincing from a hurt back, only a little blood from a thorn scratch I'd not even noticed when it happened. I was astounded, frankly, at how good I felt, getting that done.
Digging up the rose, I found a beautiful rock, I thought, buried about six inches down, in its roots. I set it aside to clean up later, and when I cleaned it I found it was not a rock but a carving of a sleeping cat, who had lost an ear somewhere under there. There are some fresh scratches from my shovel but the broken part was done earlier.
It's still a lovely thing to have found in the roots of the rose.
Surprises like that, better than that, seem to be forming here and there, while we face into winter, watching the strange weather, staying out of trouble or, at least, like I did with the rose, choosing our trouble when the moment feels right.
So I have little to say. I'm working on the garden. It doesn't look like much yet, but you just wait.
|Sleeping Cat. Photo by Kyla|