Delicate Potential

This is such a delicate time of year. Seedlings have just been planted, or seeds are just sprouting. Both have so much potential, and both are also so terribly vulnerable. I can look at the garden in the morning, and think that things look good, plants look happy and healthy, and I can imagine the bounty to come. I can come home later that day, and if it's been very hot, the little plants might be soft and wilted. If there has been a hard rain, some of the plants might be found sideways, their first leaves stuck in the mud. At these times it's more difficult to conjure up the images of full salad bowls and long rows of preserve jars. I can finish weeding some tender seedlings in the evening, looking forward to beans and peas. In the morning I can wake to find stalks with chewed ends where so much life force was a few hours ago. Even now I am sprouting yet more bean seeds, to replace those that were lost to someone or something's meal. This time I'll wait until there are at least two, and maybe even three sets of true leaves, so if some are eaten, the plant may still survive. When the plant has only its first leaves, if they are eaten, the plant has no recourse but to waste away. There doesn't seem to be any node type area where more new leaves can sprout.

My husband was so clever, and noticed that a local supermarket had frozen Sea Buckthorn berries. He bought some for me, so I could experiment with some recipes, in preparation for future harvests and preserving marathons. My little trees are happy in their new home, doing well and settling in.

A friend has given me some large collard green plants. I'll find a place for them in a shadier part of the garden. I just learned that Bulk Barn carries grits, so I'll be able to have Collard Greens and Grits later in the summer!

Gardening is such a mix. Preparing and repairing, hoping and mourning, pulling things from the ground that I don't want, and pulling things from the ground that I do want. Planning where things will go, and planning what things must go. Anticipation and dread. Happiness and worry.

Sometimes when I'm out working in the garden, I imagine being a homesteader one hundred, two hundred, and maybe even five hundred years ago, depending on the food that will come out of the ground. I try to imagine what I might be thinking throughout the various gardening phases of the spring, summer and fall. Stakes were mighty high - survival through the winter depended on garden/farm success during the growing seasons. I try to make the effort to optimize success, in solidarity with all those past gardeners. If they hadn't succeeded, where would we be? I know how fortunate I am, that in truth, my gardening is play. I can always go to the store if I have a crop failure. Even so, I garden with my whole heart, just as I would if my life really did depend on it.