Can’t see the 4est for the 3s
My birth sign suggests I am easily distractible, but that’s hardly an excuse. I know there’s a point to all this, and a good place to ponder my place in the point is in the garden on a sunny November morning. Maybe that’s the point.
Before that, however, I noticed nobody had swept up the rampant dust bunnies, which occurred to me would be a good name for an alt-folk group, so I sat down to play a couple alt-folks sings. That made be me thirsty, so I set out to find my cup of coffee.
It sat dutifully beside the antique Dutch Oven full of compost. Good. That reminded me I needed to empty the compost. I also noticed last night’s pan from dinner was still soaking in the sink, but it could wait– I certainly did not want to get distracted. So I marched the Dutch Oven toward the door.
Had to put on shoes, and sitting there beside me was a small container containing seeds for yellow water irises. A friend sent me those, and it was a bit past time to plant them, and casting them among the leaf litter in flower beds would be quick, so shoes and then water iris seeds. Turning out to be a busy morning.
I bought the Dutch Oven at a thrifty store in Missouri. Some people know how to cook in those things. I reassigned mine to kitchen compost duty, an esteemed position in the universe of uses. I emptied mine into the shell of a defunct dishwasher – an excellent composter – sitting beside the gate to the garden where contemplation awaited. So in I went.
Oak leaves had piled up at the gate, so I went to the shed for the rake, and while there grabbed the hand cultivator and pruning shears for no particular reason. The first thing in the garden, however, would be to snip back dead pineapple sage stems with the intent of heaping mulch over the entire bed for the winter. Must be the reason from bringing the shears, and shear they did.
The leaves by the gate raked themselves into the Pyramid at Thebes and then flopped all over the sage bed. Ooh-we! Then pine straw appeared, and the topper was year-old hay. Imagine being a worm four inches below surface at that moment. A magic carpet just landed. Worms quickly began envisioning block parties and parades of appreciation. There’s a reason a group of worms is called a party.
I was thinking, however, and this is prior to my time I would set aside for contemplation, that worms don’t ask much, yet they make the most of well-tended soil. Many homestead-type folks use worms in their compost. Maybe I should, too. I usually have black soldier larva in there, but it’s not their season now. They’re welcome anytime because they are among the best at assisting organic matter to decompose. Folks in industries consider Black Soldier Fly larva frass (what the flies leave behind), so important, they study it and argue about the best way to use it.
We don’t argue at my compost bins. Yes is the answer and empathy rocks.
There is one marshmallow plant in the center of the garden, and I paused there a moment. It is the only survivor of an attempt at stratification in my refrigerator last winter. This year, all candidates for stratification – exposure to cold temperatures in order to aid germination – are already planted. I gazed around and identified several natives that seed themselves in this space and others that return every year from underground life forms. I stood humbled, but I needed to go inside.
I never got my contemplation time in the garden, but it was time to write this article. My, how time is irrelevant when we enter the maze of distractions which sustain us. If life is a distraction, why aren’t we focusing? Oh heck, I forgot to turn the compost.