May the earth we live on likewise live within us

In driving rain yesterday, I sat out a new planting of asparagus, thinking several times as I worked to give it up until drier weather. But in the end I held on, and so the job was done and twenty-some asparagus crowns from New Jersey overnighted for the first here in New Hampshire.

And also yesterday in maybe even colder rain, I planted apple trees, old heirloom varieties I brought home on Saturday from Plainfield, Vermont. Consider for a second their names:

Westfield Seek-No Further
Ashmead’s Kernel
Black Oxford
Stembridge Cluster
Esopus Spitzenburg

Is life fine-tuned a bit when we look out the kitchen window and, seeing an apple tree, think Ashmead’s Kernel? when we say the words? Do the trees we live with, the plants, the architecture, the sounds, the predominate slant of the sun—do these things influence our lives in ways we don’t realize? Is working in rain actually a kind of gift? Is the coming of spring, the coming of spring, the reoccurring coming of spring profoundly more important than we understand?

Quetzal told me a week ago that she is going to “live like a wild child this summer.” I’m not sure what that means, but I’m all for it, and I suggest we join her as best we can.

May the earth we live on likewise live within us.

carry on, guys.

12 responses to “May the earth we live on likewise live within us

  1. YES to all your questions. (If you weren’t a farmer I think you could be a theoretical physicist.) I really like your questions. My apple trees are Pippins.

  2. Yes to all your questions from me, too. My heart throbs with joy for the names of heirlooms. Thanks as always, Will – and happy wilding, Quetzal!

  3. I am with Quetzal, Will. 🙂 It’s such a gift, the rain, the asparagus, the wild girl, the apple trees. I had been hanging out with Westfield Seek No Furthers and Red Astrakhans, and Winter Bananas, and hundreds of forgotten apple trees all winter, all spring. We collectes scions, then grafted, from 100 yr old trees onto root suckers and seedlings on creeksides, and tended some wild apples that pioneers planted here back in 1905.. I have about 50 heirloim fruit trees I mad in my makeshift pot nursery, for which I have no land so they will find homes in schools and national forests and community gardens. And magically like that, suddenly you see such an abundance in all of it, blackberries spreading freely by the creek, lemonase berries on dry hillsides, the intensity of the sun, abandoned apple orchards, friends bearing gifts of bagfulls of fresh oranges and loaquats, and even a rare and very welcomed drop of rain. The way that agave gathers those couple rare drops, may all of us do the same. And thank you. ❤

  4. These apples aren’t your first apple plantings, are they? I remember you encouraging me on the planting of our orchard.

  5. Sorry about spelling.

  6. Excellent, Bee. Multiplying and multiplying and multiplying biblical like. Just because. Which is the all-time best reason to do anything. Just because. And also because earth needs a lot more Eden, the first and only having been long ago sorely trodden.

  7. Yes, Scott, I remember I did encourage a prompt planting. And no, my first planting went in about about 8 years ago. May your plantings of all kinds, real and imagined, be thriving.

  8. EA. More present moment learning indeed for us not-so-present earthlings.

  9. Ah, thank you Will. Yours as well. I really should have planted asparagus but didn’t this spring. You think it’s too late to plant here? It’s almost traditional time to plant corn, tomatoes, cucumbers. But this year may be a little late.

  10. And Quetzal sounds like a force to be reckoned with. I’ve loved every story you’ve told about her.

  11. You are bringing up a good one, that Q. Someday she is going to thank you mightily for how you and Serita have held space for her to be.

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