March, Second Week

All though the past month I would find a new wildflower blooming in the meadow every week, but now it’s every couple of days. Amazingly, the tiny purple crosses that were the only flower I could find in December are still in bloom. I just have to look harder to notice them below all the bright profusion above their little faces.

The miniature phlox along the drive gives bright dots and dashes of color to the predominant yellow and orange blankets of the larger flowers. I thought my brother had seeded them in, but he says that the phlox were already here. The variation in their colors is astonishing—from pale lavender to hot pink. There’s hardly two the same color. I didn’t know there could be so many different shades. On one of my surveys, I even spot a tomato red one and another that is a fluorescent coral. Perhaps, they are some escapees from Mrs. Hullum’s garden that Mother Nature has mixed and scattered in her own incredulous manner during the past forty years.

When it comes to gardening, whether digging or planting, I am inclined to overdo it physically. Right after planting the wildflowers, I go to work digging out the pits for twenty-five asparagus plants. I am aware that I am pushing myself, but I keep assuaging my consciousness with “it’s now or never.” My neighbor Joe already has corn, potatoes and peas up.

One evening in the planting of peas, I really knock myself out. I plan to place the peas next to the fence so they can climb up it, however, I find that the tilling had not quite reached to the fence. I get busy and start digging out the “knot-weed.” Appearing as a grass with very little foliage, beneath the soil it is a mass of tenacious thick roots. The fleshy cords are so intertwined one upon another that it is just like digging into a hard rock. Undaunted—after all, I’ve gardened in Sedona where I resorted to a pick ax and crow bar for cultivating—I go after those roots at full throttle. To me, proper soil preparation is ninety percent of successful gardening.

I am in a particular hurry to get the peas in because rain is forecast, so it will water them in nicely. I do get the peas planted, but at a price. I am shoveled out. I have to go to bed at 7:00 p.m.— without dinner. I promise myself that I won’t touch a shovel for the next two days, no matter what.

Imagine my consternation when I go out the next morning to water the pea seeds (it didn’t rain) and find raccoon paw prints. Little holes are drilled down the entire row. The critter has carefully dug out each and every one of my pea seeds. Although I could have been furious because of the work it took me to dig the grass out, rake the sand level, then plant the seeds. I somehow do not have the energy. Since I had soaked too many seeds, I have plenty ready to re-plant anyway. I also have lettuce, arugula and red potatoes. I choose easy tasks since my body has not recovered from yesterday’s digging. Carefully avoiding soil preparation, I choose a spot that is well tilled to bury the seeds.

My present personal philosophy is “conscious action.” I suspect that anything we do will not cause mental scars if we do it consciously—even if it is right or wrong in the eyes of others. For years I have practiced conscious action in the kitchen, while cutting vegetables and stirring soup. Now I apply it to the art of sowing seeds. Although I realize that my earlier activity of digging out weeds has lowered my capacity to be carefully and delightfully conscious of my action, I plant each seed with the greatest of care and attention—potential designs on Mother Nature’s garment.

For planting the potatoes, I use the method of covering them with dried leaves and straw instead of dirt. Obviously, I’m a bit concerned over the raccoon, for I don’t know if he likes potatoes or not. Just for security, I throw an old piece of carpet over my planting to protect it from any tiny paws.

That night the daring fellow trips lightly right up to the patio door and looks in. As I watch him, he moseys here and there about looking for any morsel of food. I surmise that he sometimes beats the fox to the dog food I put out. Quietly, I slip out onto the deck to see what he is digging out of one of the potted plants.

Hardly noticing me, he heads for the birdseed. Really, I have a dual mind toward him as I watch him ravishing all the bird seed in the basket. He is such a cute little creature. Finally, I clap my hands and scold him. “No! Save some for the birds,” I holler out to scare him off. No way, he declares, by putting one paw on the basket, looking straight up at me and hissing like a baboon. He definitely makes me aware that this indeed is a wild animal. “I see your point,” I tell him. “No one is going to disturb your dinner tonight.”

My limited energy turns out to be an impetus for me to learn a lesson. One morning, I wander over to poke around in the thicket by the fence to see if the redbuds I transplanted are surviving. However, the vines and weeds are growing so fast that I can’t even find where I planted them. Realizing I should have flagged them, I try to figure out how I can cut the mass of vines back to the ground. Then I can start setting in small trees or shrubs to take their place. Then the message hits me: Not this year, Nancy. You have your hands full already.

Looking out over the yard, I start thinking about all I have to do on the various projects that I have already started. I realize if my body is going to survive I am going to have to prioritize, so that I can ration out my energy within the limits of my physical capacity and time constraints. It is good for me to focus the process, rather than randomly attacking whatever catches my attention. I'm sure it must be a lesson for me to incorporate into other areas of my life.

I sit down and make a list:

Vegetable garden:

1) remove remaining knotweed

2) rake and smooth the soil

• plant seeds: corn, beans, squash
• transplant tomato plants

Herb garden:

1) move old bricks to site

2) lay out pattern

1) fertilize

2) weed after seedlings are one inch tall

This list is truly all that I have time for. I remain well aware of my ability to create projects to distract me from writing, just as well as the external world does. The two me’s are ever at play. One really works hard to accomplish something creative in the world, while the other just loves to live spontaneously enjoying each moment with no thought of the future. Of course, part of the resolution is to be aware of living through both of them. And they do have some common ground. They both like to dance; they both like to dream; they both like nature; they both value truth. Actually, in their own unique ways, they both like to write.