I have three large flower pots near the front door with dark purple, black, and white petunias and potato vine; two in the back yard and one on the deck with geraniums and pansies; a hanging basket filled with a variety of multi-coloured blooms on the upper deck; two rectangular planters with sweet peas already reaching for the newly installed lattice and a big pot where I planted morning glory yesterday between them.
In the morning I fill a plastic watering can and visit each one. Deadheading as required, as I pour water I am at peace in the moment. The practice becomes a morning meditation.
Later, I’ll stand at my little backyard garden aiming a gentle spray at growing radishes, salad turnip, carrots, and tall garlic, and I’ll do the same at my community garden plot where growth increases day by day. Maybe I’ll pluck spinach and a few radishes for dinner, pull a few weeds, get lost in my thoughts. Soon, I’ll have to go early in the day, before the heat makes it uncomfortable, for now I go when opportunity presents.
I’ve grown accustomed to staying home and need a good reason to leave the sanctuary it always was, but is even more, since the world turned upside down early last year. The garden is one of the few lures that draw me into the world beyond my home. I’ve always been this way—a homebody—and felt a need to explain myself. No more.
Today, I’ll create something: a painting, a paragraph, or something else. Maybe I’ll pull out my camera and shoot flowers. I’ll read and putter and tend to things I once only dreamed of having time to unhurriedly tend to. It’s a good life. I’m grateful for it.