The Vagaries of March

It’s March. I expect the unexpected. Yet I’m flying in the face of it. Last Friday–waxing moon–dirt devas helped set out broccoli, cabbage, spinach, lettuce, radicchio, arugula. Kale. Knowing that some cold nights–like below 30–were coming. The plants seemed impatient. Ready to get out of their paper sleeves. I doused them. Many times–“are you sure?” Yes, they were ready. And then yesterday and the day before– cold, cold 30 degree rain. Covered the lettuce–two sheets and a tarp. Woke during the night, listening for the furnace. It kicks on near freezing. Listened. Often. Usually the sound of furnace-on comforts me on some level. Last night the sound of “no-furnace” was even better.

I’m remembering now. The reasons why. Why I can’t help but raise–or try to raise–a garden. And I look at that premise–“to raise a garden.” Noticing the unspoken arrogance of the notion–that I am growing the garden. “Caring for” seems more on target. And this notion for some reason has reminded me of childbirth. What we say. What was said. I remember hearing, “He got here just in time to deliver your baby.” Remember thinking, “Really?” Thinking “caught” was more apt.

Noticing language. The tendency to over-inflate importance of self. I do this. I forget that I am not driving the bus. I forget that there is absolutely SO much that I do not control.

But yes, I do make certain decisions. And then live with the results.’ So for now, I think, the plants survived the night. There will be a few more close calls, no doubt. But if we–the plants and I–get through this cold snap, we’ll have a jump on it. The plants will have a chance to become strong and hearty BEFORE the advent of the cabbage moth. BEFORE slugs decide they’re warm enough to graze. And yes, timing is everything, so we shall see.

And this coming Friday, under a waning moon, we’ll plant potatoes. Seed potatoes and potatoes-from-under-the-sink that have sprouted. And we’ll plant turnips, beets and radishes. Planting root crops in the dark of the moon.

They’re scabbing over now–the potatoes–letting the air help form a leathery cover.

And tomatoes–Cherokee Purple. An heirloom tomato attributed to the natives of these mountains. I don’t know. Last year no one had success with tomatoes. Too much rain. I’m not growing many this year. El Nino and all that.
I’m almost finished recording these thoughts–but there’s more I need to remember. There was this, during the week. I wasn’t sure. Didn’t have my glasses on. Used the zoom on the camera to see better. And yes! It is! A bluebird. The box was mounted a few weeks ago. She’s shopping out the neighborhood.It’s blurry, yes, but it’s blue.

And finally, Hope-who-has-become-Hopi, is relaxing into her yoga practice.

This cloth is still feeling its way into being.

And I’m understanding it better now. Understanding where it’s coming from–what it’s saying. The moon. The waxing/waning of the moon. How influential in our lives, in such a quiet, non-demanding way. Yet the power it wields.