the days grow like wild grasses, time passes unwatched
... and May is almost over
The tomatoes, which I planted in late February*, gave us many kilograms of fruit and are now shrinking back; gnarled and browning. The rains came, pounding and torrential for a week, and went away just as briskly. It's been hot, and then some. We have a new dog, who wandered in one day and never left. Dad said she could stay if Yuna didn't mind. Yuna minds, but doesn't fear her; instead she charges Lamoon (who’s twice her size) head-on, every chance she gets. She likes her space, in which she's used to having only three, far less excitable dogs. I laugh and feel proud and worried for her. I harvest tomatoes; okra; the occasional leafy greens. I pull weeds when I can think of nothing else to do, but feel like I should do something. It helps me to get out of my head, and pay attention to something with my hands. It's rough work, but tender at the same time.
Things move at this pace. Sometimes I'm playing catch-up; other times, watching and waiting. I try to spend some time on the farm every day. This much is a constant. Every day I try; some days I manage, other days I don't. After a few years, I've realised that milestones like "planting", "harvesting", "pruning", are at once arbitrary and significant. Plants don't know the date on the calendar, but are bound to molecular changes over the seasons; time of day; weather. It matters which month I put the tomatoes in the ground. Too early in the year, and it's too hot for them to flourish. But it doesn't matter to the tomatoes, which grow regardless. Before late afternoon when I put my hands into the soil, I think for hours about how to be more productive; how I wish I were a more successful, talented grower. When the hour comes and I am digging and parsing through weeds, it makes sense, like this is all I can be doing. Paying attention, letting my body lead, showing care to whatever passes through my fingers. I try to let these feelings meet in the middle.
You could read this as a series of vignettes. There may have been a chronology to these happenings, but it's not important.
If nothing else, pulling weeds makes me feel industrious. I don't mean that in a, well, industrial way. I mean it in the way that bees are industrious. Birds are industrious. Constantly, methodically, spontaneously, they're on the move, effortlessly part of the ebb and flow of the ecosystem.
My friend Isa called this "hazing" and I can think of no better word for it. She's a monster, a sweet, precious monster. I tell her as much:
"Yuna, dear, you know you strike fear into the hearts of all, right?"
"Meaaaow"
"Yes, well, as long as you're aware."
Even thought a dried up, crusty garden is disappointing to my sense of achievement, it's at least become a brief perch for this dragonfly.
I wish I could treat weeds with grace, wisdom, and respect, like a valued part of the ecosystem instead of yanking out the scrawny, hardy clumps that have found their way in between my other plants. I know there are ways of treating weeds that make good use of their presence, instead of valiantly eradicating them. But I can't do that now, and so remember that it's not important to do things perfectly all the time. I tell myself, by pulling weeds now, I'm creating a system that works for me, so I'll feel less overwhelmed, better able to manage the garden at hand. Even if that means some occasional, merciless yanking. This is for me, I tell them. My mind needs some weeding, and it's happening at your expense.
Loved every single bit of this post Huiran 💙