Forced To Breathe

I did not drive by the chicory on my way out this morning. I couldn't. My truck is still dead, dead, dead. Surprisingly is wasn't the clutch that died. It was the rear end differential that fell apart. That means I need the entire rear axle, brakes and all replaced.

This was the perfect opportunity for a much needed three day weekend. So I walked up to the chicory and stood there. I think I'll do it again tomorrow.

I stood there a little longer before I slowly ambled off. There is never a hurry for my planned chore for the day of cleaning my filthy house. The filth will be there whenever I get started.

This was a day made for moving at a leisurely pace, a day without worry and for quiet reflection. I wandered up to the roadside vegetable garden, planted some cucumber starts and gazed at the burgeoning growth promising fine produce to come.

I also noted all the small holes some varmint is digging in the mulch. Something is dining on lots of earthworms I suspect.

The Hydrangea arborescens was buzzing with all kinds of pollinators. I watched all the different butterflies, bees and other insecty things flying from one flower head to another. I listened to their hum.

There is only so much house cleaning I can accomplish in one day no matter the circumstances. I cleaned the bottom of the house. Maybe at some point this weekend I might clean the top.

I'd rather pull weeds. I did that for a while, finishing off the editing in the cotoneaster. All that's left is the Joe Pye, a mighty fine stand of Joe Pye.

My garden does not belong in suburbia. It completely belongs to the place it is at. Its style could be interpreted for suburbia with a smaller and more selective palette of plants. There are designers doing just that. I see those quite beautiful, highly stylized meadow gardens filled with grasses and perennials and wonder how stable they are over time. In this meadow, the shifting movement of many of the plants is a continuous process.

I came here to the wilderness and was not sure how I was going to make a garden blend in to the wild surroundings. I just knew I couldn't have a manicured garden that stood out like a beacon of ruthless control. I am learning how as I go. It is part editing and part letting go.

I do know people notice. They may not understand what is happening, but they notice a distinct floral exuberance peculiar to this particular place in the mountains not evident elsewhere in places along the scenic byway. Many have stopped to comment. Some take pictures.

In this place, in this moment, I stopped to breathe deeply, to just be. Tiny thunderstorms kept rumbling by. Finally one hit and there was rain. The garden drank up and breathed out. Its breath stretching to the world beyond.