Tag Archives: Earth Community

Boundaries & Buttercups

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Green buttercup leaves in a mat/
Buttercup leaves forming a mat.

Earlier this summer, I discovered a few lovely yellow buttercup flowers under the Honeycrisp apple tree. I didn’t think too much about it. They were so pretty. Later, when I was mowing the orchard undergrowth, I mowed those flowers along with everything else. But more recently, I realized that the buttercups had spread all over the ground near that tree, and were crowding out any other plants. So once again, I did some research and discovered that Ranunculus repens, creeping buttercup, is considered invasive in Maine.

I don’t know how it got here. And it is likely that I won’t be able to get rid of it entirely–each plant puts out horizontal stems that take root at its nodes and form new plants at each node. But I have to try. Further research suggested that using a garden fork to loosen the soil and lift up the plants was a good way to pull the plants with their roots. Also, it prefers acidic soil, so adding lime to make the soil less acidic can discourage them. I started pulling them yesterday, and did some more this morning before the rain came.

Small tree with a few apples on its branches, at the ground we see green all over, except in one area where soil is visible, and a garden fork in the lower right.
Here you can see the section I pulled and the other huge section covered with buttercup plants.

I was complaining about all this to Margy, and she reminded me that a large part of our gardening is removing problematic plants in order to encourage beneficial plants. So while I delight in the violets that spread everywhere, and the wild strawberries–both native ground covers that have flourished in the orchard, I also have to reckon with these invaders that come in from who knows where.

Invasive plants don’t have good boundaries! Now, there are also some native plants that are quite aggressive growers too. One example is Canada anemone, or anemone canadensis, which Sylvia planted in the herb garden. The difference is that native plants have more benefits for the local ecosystem. But I pulled hundreds of these plants to make room for the littlest apple tree. I put down cardboard boundaries around the circle, and over the circle, then covered it with wood chips. I may also use that method for the buttercup areas to see if that helps.

Very small tree in a circle of wood chips, with lush green plants at the back of the circle.
Small Blue Pearmain apple tree, with a ring of Canada Anemone around the back.

So once again, lessons can be learned from plants and the process of tending them in the garden. Plants have many different relationships with each other. Can aggressive or invasive plants eventually find some sort of balance? Some non-native plants find a useful niche and honor the boundaries of plants around them. We might also ask ourselves, How are we in our own relationships with others? Are we aggressively pushing out others to claim all the space and goods for ourselves? Or are we good at sharing space and goods with our neighbors? Are we also careful with our own boundaries, not letting others treat us aggressively?

And I can’t even consider these questions without thinking about the early colonization of this continent by Europeans–they certainly fit the definition of an “invasive species,” destroying so much in their spread across the continent. Yet here we are now. Can we learn to live in harmony with all beings around us?

Orchard Learning

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Mottled red apples in green leaves and branches
Our first Honeycrisp apples are almost ready to pick!

Our semi-dwarf apple tree is bearing fruit for the first time this year, and we are excited for the dozen or so apples that will be ripe soon.

How naive I was when I first decided to plant an orchard in our back yard. We started with two dwarf cherry trees in 2017, of the varieties Lapins & Black Tartarian. The next spring we planted a Contender peach tree, the Honeycrisp apple, two blueberry bushes, some raspberries, and three hazelnut bushes. In 2019 I grafted two other apple trees, Black Oxford and Blue Pearmain, this last just transplanted to its new bed this year. (Not to mention our mulberry tree further back in the yard, and three more blueberries planted later.)

I think I imagined that one would put in a lot of effort at the beginning, with preparing the ground, planting the seedlings, adding companion plants, tending, and so forth, then the work would ease and the fruit would be there for the picking in the years to come. Maybe that was some of what attracted me to permaculture and a food forest. Little did I realize that an orchard requires even more tending as the seasons go on.

And there are the ups and downs–the first peach harvest went entirely to the squirrels-we were so sad. Then we had an amazing crop last year, that we ate fresh, shared with the neighbors, and froze, some packages of which are still in the freezer. This season, no peaches at all. We have yet to have a cherry harvest. This would have been the year, I think, but the abundant flower buds were empty from the deep winter freeze. On the other hand, the raspberries are very reliable, and the blueberries have begun to come into their own. And the number of birds have multiplied in our yard, whether or not there is any fruit on the trees. They love the orchard.

All that preamble to say, I did some more pruning this past week! After watching a whole bunch of Youtube videos about summer pruning, I gained the courage to go and cut off a whole lot of branches that were vigorously seeking the sky on the peach tree and the Black Tartarian cherry. (I had already done some pruning on the Lapins because of its black cherry aphid problems.) When I post the “after” pictures below, you might not believe how many branches were piled up on the patio waiting for me to take them to the compost. The trees still look flush with abundance green, though I think their tops might be about three feet lower than before.

Peach tree and Lapins cherry after pruning.

I also discovered a lot of small curled leaves on the Black Tartarian, without any evidence of aphids. After some research I learned that there is a fungal disease, cherry leaf curl, similar to the peach leaf curl that I dealt with by picking off the affected leaves. I can’t be certain what it is, but I went back around and pruned off any branch ends with those curled leaves on both cherries. All the pruned cherry branches I cut up and put into garbage bags to go out with the trash–three bags full–so they wouldn’t spread the problem.

You might notice from the photo that the companion planting under the trees is now very low to the ground. I have taken to mowing most of it, including the oregano that spreads everywhere, and I put the cuttings in the compost to bring back later. The mowing doesn’t seem to bother anything, it all comes back. Under the Lapins cherry tree, I actually put down some cardboard to inhibit the oregano and then covered it with wood chips. It is an experiment.

Pruned Black Tartarian cherry tree.

This is not to say that the trees won’t also need winter pruning. That is the thing. They will always need lots of pruning, summer and winter. The work is never done. I might do less of it or more of it, depending on my own energy levels. But there is always more work that I could do to tend to their care. Even with my trying-to-be-minimalist approach. (I have read that there are people who secretly plant fruit trees in random places, to great environmentalist applause; but I wonder about who will do the tending.) So while I often wax eloquent about permaculture and gardening, please be warned about the other side: this relationship with garden trees requires a lot of work, more than I ever expected.

I should end this post with a caveat: I consider myself a learning gardener, and none of these reflections should be taken as advice. I have no idea what I am doing at least 50 percent of the time. My intention is creating a mutual relationship with the earth and the plants, and reflecting on that process. As always, I am humbled by it all.

Belonging

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Multi-branched sunflower with many yellow flowers, tall with green leaves.
One sunflower plant has all these blooms!

This year one volunteer sunflower plant came up next to the patio, starting small. Now it has expanded into this multi-branched extravagantly flowering giant! Doing a little research, it seems to be a native wild sunflower, because of its branching habit and the size of its flowers, and its continuing blooms. It is still one plant though, a community of flowers that is connected at the root, and much loved by all sorts of bees, other insects, and birds. It is easy to see how they belong to this place and to each other.

bumblebee and honey bee perched on center of yellow sunflower
Bumblebee and honey bee on center of the sunflower.

What does belonging mean? It is easy for me to get caught in a “not-belonging” wound, the scar of a childhood moving from place to place, always starting on the outside, trying to find my way in, feeling invisible and unconnected. It is not that I haven’t had some times of belonging–there was the group of friends at college, the group of activists at the Catholic Worker or the women’s peace camp, the lesbian community in Boston. Changing perspective sometimes took me away from earlier forms of belonging, sometimes into new communities–sometimes not. In some ways I belong to my family of origin, but my lesbian identity and feminist politics created a deep barrier.

On this personal journey, becoming a UU minister created an avenue for me to nurture community, to bring other people into a sense of belonging. And in that ministry, I had a form of belonging, too, right at the center of community, but also always a bit set apart in my role. And it also meant moving once again. Even though I have retired, I am still a bit set apart because of the role of a minister. Reflecting on it, I’ve also experienced a form of belonging in my connections with ministry colleagues. But the wound continues to shape the ways I navigate the current chapter of my life. I continue to wonder, “Where do I belong?”

As I explore various facets of belonging, the feeling remains elusive. Do I belong to this place like the sunflower and the bees? I am not indigenous to this land, it is Wabanaki land. When I reach back to my own ancestors, language is a barrier between us–I don’t speak the German of my father’s ancestors. I don’t speak French (even if I understand a little), the language of my Quebec ancestors, and even of my distant Innu relatives in these times. I don’t belong to Nitassinan (which would be my matrilineal homeland) or Quebec or Austria or Germany. I don’t belong to an ethnic community. What does belonging mean in white America, especially for those of us who reject the racism of its founding?

All these thoughts are coming round in a scattered fashion. When the feelings come up in me of “not-belonging,” it helps me to remember these childhood wounds, these societal wounds. I can acknowledge and honor those feelings but then make a choice to open my heart to new possibilities of interconnection. I am becoming interconnected to this land, as I tend the trees, appreciate the wildflowers, make habitat for birds and frogs, eat the blueberries that grow. There is a reciprocity that is developing between us. I must choose to open my heart to new people as well–not dwelling in the old fear that there will be no room for me, but being curious about the ways that we might be interconnected already, or the ways that we might find to connect right now.

Today I see one more lesson about belonging in a tall pink cosmos flower that we didn’t choose or plant, but somehow it rooted itself next to the road we live on. It is now blooming on its own after the rest of the plants have faded. It is not in the “color scheme” of the roadside garden bed. I guess its motto is a variation of the old adage: “Bloom where you are planted.” Bloom wherever your seed happens to land.

One pink cosmos flower on tall stem with feathery leaves, next to road, near greenery.

Native wild flowers

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glowing yellow goldenrod flowers on tall stalks, with dark green background
Goldenrod flowers are in bloom.

We have now lived in our home in Portland for 7 years, and are gradually getting to know the plants around us. We have our share of invasive plants, but today I want to highlight a few of the beautiful native wildflowers that are blooming right now in our yard. They come up on their own, and Margy has encouraged them by pulling invasive species, and leaving certain areas alone as she mows paths around the back yard.

I believe our goldenrod might possibly be the solidago sempervirens, or seaside goldenrod, native to eastern North America. This identification fits with our sandy pine forest soil, and photos online look similar. But it is very difficult to distinguish between species of solidago. Solidago is considered a keystone species, and has been called the single most important plant for North American pollinator biodiversity. They are very loved by many bee and butterfly and moth species. We love them too.

Tiny orange flowers on thin stems with oval serated leaves, droplets of water on the leaves.
Jewelweed after a rain.

Jewelweed grows profusely at the back and sides of our yard. Impatiens capensis is also called touch-me-not, because of the way the ripe seeds pop open when touched. It often grows near poison ivy (which we don’t have) and has traditionally been used as a remedy to prevent the rash caused by exposure to poison ivy. This year it has gone a little crazy all around our old white pine, and in Margy’s mound bed nearby. Hummingbirds and bumble bees are their major pollinators.

tall stems with small yellow flowers at the tips, many plants in 1/2 wine cask planter, on patio near deck railing.
Evening primrose in an old half wine cask container.

I got to know evening primrose last year, when it was the favorite plant for goldfinches after it had gone to seed. This year, it has self-propagated into two containers, as well as all around the patio and orchard. Oenothera biennis is a biennial plant, forming a small rosette the first year, and then in the second year shooting up to great height before blooming. It is native to eastern and central North America. Evening primrose oil is considered medicinal for a variety of conditions, though we haven’t tried harvesting it for such.

evening primrose closer
Evening primrose, closer look at the blooms.

What I love about these three species is that they grew on their own. We didn’t plant them, we just began to notice them and appreciate their presence. True gifts from the earth. There are many others we have begun to notice as well. It takes a while to learn about them and to identify them. It feels like such an important part of finding our way into earth community.

Bird visitors

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Mottled brown and cream juvenile cooper's hawk on grass
Juvenile Cooper’s Hawk on the grass.

Excitement in the yard this morning! I woke to see out my window a juvenile hawk standing in the grass between the bird feeder and the elderberry bush. I went outside to take a photo, and they seemed undisturbed by my presence–I got within 4 yards of them. At one point they turned in my direction, checking me out. I didn’t really want them to be stalking the birds that come to the feeder, so I looked back at them. After a bit, they turned and flew into one of our spruce trees.

Juvenile Cooper's Hawk facing me, with yellow irises and yellow legs, cream colored breast with brown markings.

But that wasn’t the only excitement. Later, after doing errands and coming back again, I heard a wren chittering in the yard. I saw that a small bird was caught inside the screen tent, flying from side to side, unable to find a way out.

During the last two days I had heard a tiny brown bird chittering away over near the Joe Pye Weed and perching on the fence of our neighbors. I thought perhaps there might be a nest in the underbrush there, because the bird moved about like they were trying to lure me away. The Joe Pye Weed is so tall that it towers over the fence and over us, and with other tall wildflowers nearby, it would make a very secluded area underneath. I saw and heard enough to identify the bird as a wren.

Pink flowers on tall stalks of Joe Pye Weed.
Flowers in bloom on the tall Joe Pye Weed plants.

So yesterday, our friend Sylvia came by to tend to her herb garden–she is the one who originally planted the Joe Pye Weed, and other native plants that we love. We were sitting out in the orchard chatting, and the wren came back to the fence. We hadn’t seen any wrens earlier in the season. So that in itself was exciting–bird visitors! Maybe a nest.

Small brown/tan bird perched on gray wooden stockade style fence, with greenery behind.
Tiny wren grooming itself on the fence.

But today, I was distressed to find a wren in the screen tent. I went over and opened one of the panels, and walked inside the tent to try to encourage the bird to go out. They kept going away from me, from one screen panel to another, but not out. So I opened up another panel so the opening was wider. I worry about how long they had been in there. They would have to have entered either underneath the panels in the grass, or through very narrow slit openings at the corner of the roof. Finally, they flew out the wider opening and over to the nine bark bush by the pond.

I came back into the house, and told Margy about the wren and the hawk. She was excited too, and told me how much she loves my bird adventures. I love that I have her as an audience for my joy.

Later, I wondered if the juvenile hawk was stalking the wren earlier, and the wren had creeped into the tent for safety. We humans only ever see part of the story. The rest is a mystery. But today feels like one of those days where we really are a wildlife sanctuary. I hope my story can bring a little joy to your day.

First harvests

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Orange slotted container with blueberries half full, and small cucumber, cut broccoli and a few raspberries.
Blueberries, cucumber & broccoli

In the excitement of the fledgling robins, I didn’t post about our Lammas harvest. The photo is of our fruit and veggie harvest of August 1st. It has been a great year for blueberries! We have also harvested some kale–there is more that wants to be cut today– some zucchini, some raspberries, and more cucumbers. Lammas is the first harvest festival of the season, and I am grateful and amazed that despite all our limitations, we actually receive food from this land.

We can’t control anything about this land. We can’t control what plants will thrive each season–no cherries or peaches this year, for example. But in partnership with the land, in our belonging to the land, these moments of yield emerge. So grateful!

Robins at Lammas

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Fledgling robin looking at mother robin who is looking back, perched on gray wooden railing, greenery behind.
Fledgling robin with mom on the deck railing.

Our Lammas harvest festival blessing was being able to watch the fledging of the robins’ third brood of three chicks. (That makes nine chicks all together!) They had been getting active the last couple days so we were expecting it. But what a nice surprise to look out the window and see the first fledgling perched all alone on the deck railing, looking around at the big wide world for the first time.

Fledgling robin alone on gray deck railing looking out to greener beyond.

They probably saw their mother hopping on the ground further in the back yard. (We did too.) Then the mother flew up next to it on the railing for encouragement. (That was photo number one). After looking at each other, they each looked out beyond, and then the mother flew off, and the baby soon followed, alighting high in the hazelnut bushes.

Fledgling and mother robin on gray wooden deck railing looking away from camera toward greenery beyond.

The other two remained in the nest for a little while, but soon the second one flew out toward the orchard. Finally there was just one left. I wandered around outside, but the parents were chirping at me, their warning calls. I saw the parent robins also diving and shrieking at squirrels in the pitch pine tree branches, and angrily calling at a cardinal who came into the cherry tree–too close as far as the robins were concerned. Back inside for a while, I saw the dad robin come to the nest–with a piece of grass in his beak, but I didn’t see food. He sat with the third baby for a while, so tender. After he left, the baby shrunk down into the nest, only its beak visible. Hiding mode.

Baby robin, just head showing above brown grassy nest, with dad robin above and behind in nest, between white painted beams underneath and on side.

I had to go out in the orchard to do some mulching, and then I sat at the patio table. I could hear number three chirping every so often from the nest, their head visible again, and then I’d hear another chirp from the direction of the hazelnut bushes. When I came back inside, I kept an eye on them through the windows. They got out of the nest finally, and hopped along the beam to the other side. While the first fledgling had seem so confident and proud of itself, this one seemed quite scared about jumping from its safe little home. But everybody had left. It huddled up next to the opposite side beam.

Baby robin visible from belly up, on white beam, next to side beam, looking toward the camera.

Finally, the little one started to stretch their legs, and move their wings a tiny bit. They moved up to the very edge of the beam. They hovered there for quite a while. One of the parents came back to the deck railing down below and behind the nest. I also saw a female gold finch perched on the railing in front of the nest. Not sure what that was about. A chipmunk was scurrying below on the patio. I stood still next to the back windows and just watched–I didn’t take any more photos. The gold finch left, the parent left, the chipmunk left. The little one perched on the edge. Then they bravely jumped off.

I heard a flutter of wings against the screen window of our music room, just to the left of the deck out of my sight. I went out the door to observe, and saw that the baby was hanging by one claw stuck in the screen, and flapping their wings against it. I walked to the edge of the deck, reached over and cupped my hands gently around the baby, careful to contain their wings, lifted them to release the claw. I let go and they flew down to the lemon balm patch. Be still my heart. They slowly hopped out onto the patio, hopped over some garden hoses, making their way over to the mulched area under the cherry tree. They hopped into the grass behind, and finally they flew up over the grass into the trees.

And then the nest was empty. They say that robins raise two or three broods a season, and if that is true, they may be done with the nest for now. They’ll feed the babies for a few more weeks out in the bushes and trees. I wonder how all nine of their children are doing? Did they all survive? I hope they are thriving. We don’t see them once they leave the nest, so we never know.

I feel a sense of joy, and a sense of loss, all at the same time. I feel grateful for the privilege to observe the robin family, and for the moments I was able to capture in photos. I feel sad to look out the window and see them gone. I am also grateful that I was able to give them a little shade from the sun, and maybe that helped.

Humble

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Red rain barrel in front of house, heat pump seen on upper right, behind oregano plants all over the place, green with white flowers
Overgrown oregano all around the rain barrels and heat pump.

I love sharing photos of beauty in the yard. But it is harder to know how to share the challenges and failures. I actually feel like a failed gardener right now. Yes, there are little harvests, yes there are elements of beauty. But there is so much that is overwhelming. I don’t enjoy “weeding” which seems to be what real gardeners often talk about enjoying. A weed is merely a wrong plant in the wrong place. We make further distinctions to talk about invasive plants that are harmful to the local ecosystem. And there are also native plants that are aggressive in the ecosystem.

One of my overwhelming senses of failure comes from the oregano that is spreading all over the orchard. When I originally planted some donated oregano as a companion plant to the orchard trees, I had no idea how it would take over. Oregano is a tasty herb, not native, but useful, and the bees love the flowers; I’ve dried some of the plant for seasoning. Last year as it spread, I thought, okay, just let it go where it wants. This year I tried taking out a tiny patch using a garden fork. Its roots form a thick mat under the soil. Even a tiny patch was challenging to remove. I’ve lately taken the mower through the orchard a few times. With the rain and heat inhibiting our outdoor time this summer, I can’t imagine how to get it under control. I hate the feeling of needing to get a plant under control.

Everything in the yard is ragged and overwhelming. For each native plant I newly discover and appreciate (like the evening primrose that the goldfinches adore), there is another tall unknown plant that I have no idea about. The orchard trees have to be pruned each year, and face challenges from mysterious pests and diseases. Will the Lapins cherry survive its challenges?

Perhaps in all of this, I discover that I don’t enjoy tending and caring for this patch of earth the way I thought I would? I am not good at gardening? I’ll never be good at harvesting much food? I want to give up sometimes, but how can I? Everything is right outside my door. I acknowledge that it is much more difficult for all gardeners because of the climate catastrophe of our times. I realize that I don’t have teachers to show me how–mostly just books really, and the internet. I don’t think gardening was meant to be so all alone.

But I have made this commitment to a spiritual journey into earth community. These overwhelming challenges are part of that journey too. So what can I do? This morning, I took myself out to our new screen tent, placed a blanket on the ground, and sat on the ground. It has been a while since I have done that. At our old yard, I used to sit on the ground in a screen tent almost every day. Lately, instead, I have been walking around looking at things that need tending. Today, I sat on the ground and let the ground tend to me. I turned to each of the four directions, to honor the powers of east, south, west, and north–and the powers of the earth below, the sky above, the spirit within.

The sun shining through in the eastern sky, from within the screen tent.

It reminds me that I am small, and these powers are large. Spirit is large. They are my teachers and carers. I hear the cardinal singing from the tall trees. Truthfully, I am not really the one who tends the earth, the earth is the one who tends to me.

I am remembering a chant song I learned from a friend in English, and then heard later in Wolastoqey; As far as I can discern, it originated from Wolastoq people, and has since been performed by other indigenous people as well. My friends and I sang it something like this, in several verses substituting the word “creator” with all manner of beings, such as trees, ancestors, water, stars, dragonflies, children–all the creatures around us.

We've got to humble ourselves in the eyes of the creator, we've got to bend down low.
We've got to humble ourselves in the eyes of the creator, we've got to know what they know.
We can raise each other up, higher and higher. We can raise each other up.

Perhaps the failures are also teachers, a reminder of our ultimate dependence, an opening into something more mysterious and powerful in whose eyes we are seen and held.

Goodbye Old Pine

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Huge white pine tree trunk with three or four sections higher up, next to garage door on the left, white picket fence in front and other garage on the right.
The huge white pine tree next door was too tall to fit into one photo.

It was a sad day on July 6th when our neighbor’s huge pine tree was taken down. It had been the target of woodpeckers for a few years, so that was a sign that it was likely distressed–and in fact the tree company later confirmed the core had rotted. Situated so close to both our houses, our neighbor decided it was too dangerous to keep. But we were all sad to say goodbye too. It was a beautiful old pine.

Because of its position, the tree company needed to use our driveway to get access to the tree. I was amazed at the extent of the production. There were three huge trucks–one in the driveway with a crane to lift a worker to chainsaw the tree in huge sections. Another truck was parked and stabilized just off the street in our neighbor’s yard and used an even taller crane with a cable to carry these huge sections of branches and trunk over to the street. A third truck shredded smaller branches. At one point, I went outside to see what the biggest crane was doing, since from inside, it seemed it was lifting the huge logs right over the top of our house.

Blue sky, with tall crane and cable holding log, next to garage, trees in back.
Crane with cable lifts log up.
Blue sky, crane angled to the right over house with solar panels on roof, still carrying big log.
Crane swings over to bring log to the front of our house, to the street.

So it wasn’t actually carrying them right over the top of our house–more like around the edge of our house. Still, these were huge sections of the tree. And then the final section of the trunk was lifted up.

Huge trunk of pine hanging from cable
Huge trunk on its side in the street, with worker in yellow hard hat removing cabling. the width of the trunk comes up almost to his waist.
Worker removes the cabling from the trunk.

And then they were done, and the big logs moved to our neighbor’s front lawn to be later removed, and the trucks gone. It all happened in two hours. I’m glad that we are in less danger of a huge tree falling on our house in a big storm. In fact, we’ll also likely see more solar energy production, since the tree cast shade on our solar panels in the late afternoon. But I wanted to mark this passing, make room for the loss, and especially to remember the beauty of the pine.

Weather Report

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Close-up of white woman smiling into camera, with blue sun hat, sun glasses, and backdrop of ocean beach, with small figure looking out to sea.
Crescent Beach, Myke, with Margy in background.

A week ago we finally made it to the beach. We’ve had so many rainy days this summer, alternating with a few very hot muggy days. That day was hot and muggy, but less so at Crescent Beach, so we got ourselves over there. The water was totally full of seaweed, and somehow that dampened my enthusiasm for swimming, but the wading was lovely, and lying on a blanket in the sand. I’m smiling in the selfie, but this post is more about the challenges of this summer.

It feels like a summer in which it is very hard to love the earth, or to feel loved by the earth. It is hard to even go outside! According to the weather report for Maine, June had only 7 days without rain. And July the rainy patterns have continued. But what makes it worse is that the days without rain have gone to the opposite extreme of muggy and hot. I don’t think we’ve had even one dry, sunny, moderately warm day. The other challenge has been air quality–many days of smoke particles making their way from Canada–not to an extreme, but enough to bump the meter from “good” to “moderate”.

And I have to acknowledge that we’ve been lucky here. No flash flooding of town centers, like in Vermont this week. No over-100-degree heat for days on end like in Arizona. No forest fires on our doorstep. But still…

I’ve been feeling like a failure in my deep intention to build relationship with the earth. It’s not that the garden is doing so badly (except for maybe the cherry tree). It is just that I feel unable to tend to it, unable to even sit outside and appreciate it. (The cherry tree needs some attention because of, perhaps, black cherry aphids and sooty mold.) If I manage to do one small garden thing in a day, I count that as gain. For example, the other day, I put some tulle netting over the ripening blueberry plants.

Tulle fabric spread over blueberry bush, with raindrops, berries starting to ripen.

I do try to walk around for ten minutes in the morning if I can. But none of it feels like the nurture that the garden had been for me during the last several years. Instead I feel a vague sense of overwhelm, I feel uncomfortable in my body, I feel grief and deep weariness.

And the truth is, because of climate change, because of the destructiveness of our larger society, we are all facing unimaginable loss, we are all facing a time of unknowable earth transformation that may lead to our doom. With this looming around us, no wonder these small weather challenges feel so overwhelming.

So today I am making space for that overwhelm, for grief, for rest. But even in the midst of those feelings, there are parts of the garden that still seemed determined to bring beauty to my eyes. I look out the front window, and the roadside garden is now awash in yellow heliopsis flowers and day lilies. They brighten even a gray day.

Yellow heliopsis flowers all over the roadside garden.