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
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.