The View From Here
There are some days you can’t see from where you were standing three months ago.
On our plates last night were the first harvested tender leaves of kale and chard from the garden, softened a bit by steam and wrapped spring roll-style around a tasty melange of shredded cabbage, tiny carrot pieces, onion, seasoned TVP, and chunks of plant-based protein all stir-fried with sesame oil, minced garlic and ginger, and crowned with a Korean BBQ-spiced peanut sauce. Oh, and brown rice and charred red bell peppers found their way inside those rolls too. Spilling out the ends like just-popped British Christmas crackers, the filling made it to its final destination without fork or spoon. I’m sure we’re more cautious about eating with our fingers these days, but my hands were CDC-inspection clean so I risked it. Food that good ought to be eaten with reckless abandon for all the work it took to get it to the table.
Back in March, those gorgeous dark green leaves were but an idea buried within a hopeful tiny seed sunk into a rather chilly soil-and-compost mix, side dressed with our imaginations and dog-eared pages of reliable cook books. I’ve always leaned toward a life guided by preparedness—before Field of Dreams gave us the brilliantly quotable “If you build it, they will come” line—because I want to be ready for what could happen, and give myself the best possible chance for success. That works well mostly when the combined elements of any plan are within my control, or at least responsive to my influence. But it rained and rained and rained this spring, pushing our spring planting goals well into the end of April and creating a small muddy moat around the most viable of our raised beds. All the seedlings would need to stay put for a couple more weeks, and they grew impatiently leggy in their confining pots. We distracted them with repositioning toward the gray light of day, and sang to them only the most hopeful and positive of songs. Kale and chard spring rolls in June weren’t anywhere on the horizon; we didn’t even know such a meal was possible. But we kept true to the plan to at least have a garden.
Winter-into-spring tests the depths of our trust and optimism that the ground will indeed dry out enough to put the potatoes in or walk the field line without plunging one foot into the soggy and camouflaged front door of a groundhog’s den, pulling off one’s boot in an attempt to keep walking (sending a few well-rehearsed oaths into the air, hoping said groundhog understands what we’ve come to call “barn words”). No matter what the setback, the disappointment, the unmet expectation, we push aside the strongest of our doubts and send all our hope into the very heart of a seed, aligning our dreams with its tiny power to use what’s given to it—a dark blanket of dirt, water, warmth and eventual light—and become something so spectacularly huge by comparison, it makes the wise and observant person sit down in silence and awe. That’s why I sing to our garden at sunset. There’s just no other appropriate response to such well-designed magic.
Three months ago, I figured I’d have come down with the Virus before spring was over, and I didn’t let my imagination go much past that point. On this particular day in June, I’m fine. In fact, I’ve been fine every day this month and the three months before that, save for the requisite anxiety and edgy-ness that any global pandemic will bring. The remedy is to not saturate myself with news and speculation-based op-eds. So far that approach, and keeping up with well-established wellness routines (fistfuls of the right supplements, fresh air, exercise, gratitude for at least five things every day, laughing at Carol Burnett Show blooper reels) have kept me on the kinder side of this whole ordeal. Masks and physical distancing seal the deal and are not negotiable. And while I probably entertain too many thoughts and imaginings of where we’ll all be by October, I work hard to limit such mental meanderings, letting my eyes rest on the freshly-cleared ridge by the house, or watch as some hidden vacuum within the vintage camper-style birdhouse seems to suck the wrens inside just as the kittens swipe their paws from a precarious perch on the branch above.
It’s been a hard and sometimes breathless dance, balancing our current horrors and heartbreaks with those sweet present moments that are innocently detached and free of worry. I feel guilty for taking a break while others sweat on, and then I remember that my shoulder will be to the wheel soon, and the respite I give myself is yet another healthy strategy to keep my core values in play. What matters deeply to us requires the effort to sustain it. Perhaps your mileage is different, but I’ve not yet found a way to enjoy the good stuff without working for it.
There’s one raised garden bed that’s struggling. The tomato plants look hearty enough, but the zucchini and okra look pale and resigned. I suspect the soil isn’t giving them the nutrients they need, and consider gently transplanting them into a better mix. When I close my eyes, I see them thriving, putting another sublime meal on our plates in August. What do they need today, to get them to that future?
Indeed. Where do we want to be in three weeks or two years? And what will get us there?
Hmmm…imagine.
