This spring, I go from “hard work in the garden” days, to “collapse on the couch” days. With so little sun and so much rain, I feel an urgency on those good days to do as much as possible. Monday, for example, I was able to inoculate the orchard with Wine Cap mushroom spawn. That involved shoveling and hauling lots of wood chips from the pile, via a wheelbarrow, over to the trees, laying layers of wood chips in patches near each of the four trees, then spreading the spawn, then more wood chips on top. (This is on top of old wood chips that are already around the trees.) I also put some compost in patches that I had missed last week. I also planted chamomile and sunchokes that I had received in trade at the Plant Swap on Saturday.
Then, after, while I am taking a hot Epson salt bath for my aching muscles, I imagine that I will blog about it the next day–but I just haven’t have the energy for much more than Netflix for two days after any garden work days. So I haven’t blogged about the Fedco tree sale, or about repurposing the garden bed behind the garage for three new blueberry plants, or about spreading seaweed mulch near the trees, or adding compost, or planting kale and more peas. I haven’t blogged about any of it.
Meanwhile, between the work and the collapse, it is easy to miss the ephemeral beauty of it all. The other day, I noticed I was missing something. I stopped to sit on the deck, and then walked around the yard, not working. I just looked at bushes and flowers and ferns, paying attention to what was there, appreciating the miracle of plants and their growth.
I finally sat down again on the deck, and after I had been there awhile, the hummingbirds boldly flew in to drink from our feeders.
It is hard for me to have so little energy this spring. I wish I could do much more in the garden, and not be so exhausted every time afterwards. I guess this is my new reality, this balancing act. But I am reminding myself to appreciate the beauty around me, to notice the color purple on the patio (as Alice Walker might say), to be grateful, and quiet enough for the birds to fly around taking no notice of my presence. To breathe slowly enough for shadows of joy to sneak in.