Falling water has been my sign for knocking off writing deadlines. "You can't garden in the rain!" Wrong! A little bit of stretched plastic has shifted my paradigm. What's a greenhouse for, if not to garden?
When I walked into my "study" this morning, yesterday's fat envelope of seeds called me on the carpet, "Plant me!" I sat there in my running clothes, to do my early morning routine -- search the Federal Register, skim news headlines, digest a few op ed pieces, and check banking agency web sites. "Plant me!"
What's the point? How could I concentrate over talking seeds, especially when their future home lies within view outside the window? Hold on, sweethearts, while I change into jeans and worn shoes. Now, who goes first? I sorted the embryos into a small cardboard box, carried them through the rain, raked the soil fine, and set them free. Bibb, crisphead, leaf and romaine lettuces. Broccolis, cabbages, Greek oregano, parsleys and peppermint. Will they grow in this experiment?
"And your running clothes?" asks Virginia.
They called me from a pile on the bedroom floor. A little water can't keep them inside for long. What's the difference between sweat and rain, after 4 slow miles?
The Bowman Women; A Work In Progress
1 week ago