Problem is, I feel as if everything is more important than writing, even weeds. Gardening is full of much more purpose. After all, my entire family gets to enjoy the hard work as do neighbors and friends. It’s an ideal physical distancing space. It’s also an extension of my home. And if I don’t get those geraniums (if that’s what they are) into the ground, they’ll be toast. There’s another plant that needs deep soil but the deer love it—it’s root-bound behind will have to remain potted for now. And there are a couple of pieces of another plant I can’t name that I’ve been trying to root for ages but can’t ever seem to make time for. All they need is dryer soil and some peat moss mixed in. I think. They were once all in one big pot and flourishing. Their current state causes me much shame. Yet I’m determined, so determined that I’ll sacrifice writing time for the fortieth time—this tension in my heart is great.
The sunroom can’t possibly fit all these odds and ends and neither can the house—I have a 3 year-old. So I must attend to my plants. Listen, I spent good money on most of these plants…okay, many. Others were here before me and some were given. But the point is I don’t want to waste money. If any of these good looking dark green, deep red, light green, thin, fat, lanky, abundant air cleansers, butterfly attracters, and deer candy end up in the heap of compost behind our fence, I’ll have a few really bad days all in a row.
I don’t have enough time for even one.
I guess what I’m saying is that I’m not going to write tonight. I can’t chance it; the loss of plant life simply isn’t on my agenda. I’m about five more planters away from feeling really good about my green thumb. By that I mean I need to buy 5 more planters (I think) and the thought of such beauties that are hopefully on sale taking up space inside my sitting room is invigorating. Wahoo! Can you feel the magic? More plants will live!
And can you feel the dirt falling between your fingers? Bagged potting soil, that is. The clay that’s already in the ground sticks and stains. But the nice stuff smells like progress, divine blessings unto the third and forth generations. Breathe that in. Take your time. Time multiples when the soil is good.
And oh, the air. It’s a pristine 72 degrees Fahrenheit, enough for a light sweater and quality rain boots, the ones you purchased on vacation (even though you only had a carryon) because they looked like something you’ve always needed. Seven years later, they still look that good and they don’t mind the clay.
You may want to spritz on a little Deet-free repellent. These mama mosquitoes can be sneaky and I’d hate for you to slap even the good soil into your hair and/or ear when their womb music begins.
The sun has been set for a while so you may want an extra light source. A headlamp should be nearby. Grab the one with the red light option so the moths don’t check out the curvature of your forehead.
If you want less cleanup, pull on your leather gardening gloves. Don’t worry, the good soil will still fall gently to the ground or into a planter, cheering you on as you love your investments well. Do remember to take them off when you’re ready to water everything. Not every part of the gloves are leather.
When you’re all done, you’ll log this as a workout in your fancy new health insurance app. Your step count will jump. High fives all around. Then you’ll take a warm shower, slip into pajamas, and say a prayer before your body says goodnight. Sleep will come quickly.
Darn. It’s already 9pm. Guess you’ll have to wait for tomorrow. Who knew the clock moved extra fast when you’re dreaming?!
And writing…yeah, let’s stick that onto Thursday’s agenda. Here’s to another Tuesday in the books!