The birds are fed. The cats are fed. Wordle is in the books. My day begins. I’m thinking about my garden again and the satisfaction it offers. The work I put in these days is mostly cosmetic and minor at that. Since I grow native plants there aren’t many things I call weeds. Of course, there’s always the random grass to pull and bindweed, nut grass, and silverleaf night shade are my banes, but that’s about it. I pull what I can reach and try to keep order but mostly I just walk around and look.
There’s a lot to see, and it changes as the day progresses and the seasons progress and the years move along. I’ve got a pretty good film bank in the old brain, shots of young plants now grown old. Old plants spreading and colonizing. Plants wishing for water, plants wishing for sun. I guess you could say they’re all my babies, and I love them, and I suppose their blooms, in a manner of speaking, is a return of that love.
And it all makes me think of people and a garden of friends. You love them and nurture them and they return the love in one form or the other but sometimes, not. Where we get crossways, I think, is expecting that love or expecting anything, and then becoming unhappy when expectations fall short. A lesson from the flowers, is that things bloom in their season and there are lots of variables and the flowers’ performance is hardly personal and when there’s a plant problem, I just keep working to solve it. And sometimes I fail. Yet, still I try. And I hardly ever get upset. And that’s a good thing to do with people. Just keep trying, giving of yourself, and celebrating the blooms of love when they come.