Overnight, the growth seems exponential. I stand with the the long-handled nozzle on my hose putting water near the base of turnips and beans and kohlrabi and other plants that are, today, more than they were yesterday.
Sometimes, change happens when we don’t expect it. We’re surprised when we find ourselves somewhere we haven’t been before until we realize it was all leading up to this moment of now.
I’m not getting all that I want to done in this season, but I’m doing my best to focus on the better things. They differ from years prior and they’re not the same as they will be. Remaining flexible is important.
I drop the spray nozzle in plastic bottles I buried at the base of my tomato plants when I planted them to water deep. As the vessels fill, I tuck rogue vine tendrils back in place in the six-foot tall cages—if I don’t do it now, while the branches are young and pliable, I’ll regret it down the road when they’re apt to snap from the tension of being forced somewhere they don’t want to go.
My eyes scan the rows as I water. I bend and pluck a stray weed from the back of the garden next to one of the garlic plants, and deadhead a sunny marigold, dropping the dry seeds on the ground next to the plant. When I’ve saturated the garden, I hang the hose up and tuck the long-handled nozzle next to the jalapeño pepper plant beside it.
I cut Swiss chard for supper and pull radishes and a few salad turnips, making a mental note of where I should sow more. With my hands full of vegetables and dirty even though I rinsed them under the spigot, I turn for one more satisfied look then walk toward my car.
At home, I chop vegetables and make a salad for later, then sit down with my book and the Yorkie beside me and leave the country for a while. A storm blows in and then blows out. I stand on the deck, watch clouds and smell rain, and in the moment of now it is well.