“Honestly, when I have weeks that are as complicated & morally demanding as these last few have been, I meet my physical work with a resolute spirit & force of will, bar none. I’ve had to pinch hit hard, on a bunch of stuff. But today started well, with the guy at the supply depot who asked for my slip, to make sure we were all “on the same page”, who was actually quite friendly. Good with the Bobcat, he accurately aimed a couple of bucket loads of premium, hemlock mulch into my truck bed, then, while getting me straw & conservation mix from a warehouse on the other side of the yard, shared a bit of above average truck talk. You know, leaning on the truck, this way or that way. Sharing notes about lumber yards, the weather, philosophy, or some local caper. You’d be surprised who is the smartest in the land, when it comes to seeing reality for what it is. It only gets weirder from here. So, I get to the job site, remarkably, on time. Pull out the four wheeler, and make a quick assessment of the yard. Of course, any gardener worth his or her salt at this time, is dealing with peony aftermath. The one, long bed, we’d hoped to have composted, fertilized and buried in something bark in nature, is not. It’s reverting to chaos, with drunk double pinks, doubled over, heads resting on dusty wood chips, bind weed ready to strangle freedom, and remove all remaining civil liberties with arrogant disregard for any form of individuation. You see, plants do it too. Just like we do. I get a text. My 30-something assistant gardener has just accidentally maimed her cat while trying to groom it. I kid you not, and I’ve been there, so no judgment. It all ripples out, these twists of life, the curve balls, the sad, maddening shocks, the misunderstandings, epic or not epic, however, if we care, we hurt when truth is maligned. By now, I’m rhythmically removing bamboo stakes, balling twine, organizing garden flotsam. I think of my hardback copy of Donald Hall’s “String to Short to be Saved”, a treasure, at least in as far as it helps me feel connected to some literary, rural royalty in Vermont. But, to be frank, it was “Dorothy & Red” that captured me, and set my destiny on course. Here I am, still working, in Brookfield, in Barnard, in so many remote farming valleys that I think I’ve dreamed of them or they dreamed me, before they had names. I’m raking the soil to divide weed material from Verbascum, Delphinium, Globe Thistle and Baptisia. I know better, than to demote any plant, yet I’ll make choices to shape an aesthetic, which is artificial but I understand that, and accept that, about art. And moving north, to the upper garden, I’ve already laid stone there, & lugged things that were likely too heavy for me, and avoided milk snakes and wasp nests, abruptly. I do know how to run. It still startles me, to overturn a chunk of granite, and have a critter look up at me, and lock eyes. I admit to cutting green daffodil leaves, despite admonitions, feeling the relative strength of bulbs in my soul. And I slash what I must, to ensure future pleasures, haul off excessive piles of “the unwanted”. And should you find yourself relegated to “the unwanted”, don’t despair. Understand that it’s only in someone else’s lexicon, in which you’ve been relegated to obscurity. In your own book, you are doing way better. Way better. So much better, in fact, that you would laugh, and even relax into a lawn chair, to sit by sacred fire. Unmarred by judgment. Unaffected by anyone else’s stupid assessment, that has nothing, I repeat nothing, to do with who you really are.”
