The Garden of Eatin’, Prayin', and Lovin'

Gardening is one of my greatest joys. I love the earth beneath my feet, mud under my nails, pulling weeds, preparing the soil for food and flowers to grow.

Metaphors abound beneath the soil.

What needs to be cleared away in order for there to be space to grow what we intend to grow?

How do we support the conditions for optimal harvest?

Supposedly, planting just before the new moon begins to wax toward fullness again, invites the plants to be drawn upward gently by Earth’s Silvery Daughter’s increasing gravitational tug. Who knows if it’s true? I like the idea of unseen support, so I try to act accordingly.

The best I could do, for this most recent foray into gardening, was to plant two days past new moon.

I had purchased a Hummingbird Hyssop six weeks ago, and a Grandmother White Sage plant a month or so ago at a local Farmer’s Market. I'd set out the pots to experiment with the light and proximity to the big pines - to see if the plants liked their proposed places to grow.  A couple of weeks ago, I rooted some potatoes, onion, and lemon grass for planting. The store-bought plants needed holes dug; the rooted-in-the-kitchen ones required potting soil and containers.

Before we ever saw this wonderful home, where we moved in December, both front and back yards were covered in three to six inches of redwood bark. Just beneath the bark, a thin film of permeable black plastic mesh had been spread, ostensibly to discourage the growth of unwanted plants. Mesh is no match for tenacious grasses, dandelions, wild oats, poison oak, and a variety of nameless weeds that keep poking up from beneath it.

Sunday, when I began to dig holes for the store-bought tubs and a Meyer Lemon tree given to us as a house warming, I discovered that beneath the black mesh is CLAY! Even with Mark’s help, it took a while to carve deep enough holes for the potted plants. Tree roots, rocks, and odd bits of cement were challenging to the blade of the spade and tines of the pitchfork, but with persistence, we triumphed, and all were planted.

The final hole we dug was at the far corner of the backyard for a sweet Mourning Dove who flew into the living room window and seemingly broke her neck. Her demise must have happened while I was out front. I’d carried a tub full of gray-water from the sink, to the back to water the pines, and the bird wasn’t there yet. When I returned to the backyard, after placing the rooted plants in the front garden, I found her on her back, feet clenched, feathers ruffling in the stiff breeze. She was absolutely still, but still warm. I watched closely, but saw no sign of pulse or breath. By the time her grave was ready, she was cold. We said Thank you, Bird, for your beauty and work and song. May you return as another vibrant and lovely life form. We wrapped her in white toweling, and placed her tenderly in the clay.

If I am to interpret all the signs in the garden as shamanic messages, I wonder what to make of the death of a winged one while we’re trying to nurture the lives of rooted ones. 'Tis a puzzlement.