Our garden is coming along slowly compared to some others I’ve seen. We’ve planted squash — perhaps far too much of it — beets, corn, parsnips, chamomile, sage, thyme, rosemary, lavender, nasturtiums, blueberry bushes, parsley, calendula, and a few other herbs I’ve forgotten. I still haven’t gotten the zucchini, salad greens, carrots, tomatoes, or any of the other traditional veggies planted. I’m feeling a little lazy about that. Also, it’s a little disconcerting to see the meadow continue to creep into our planting space. Why milkweed, Bishop’s Weed, Sweet Bed Straw, Goldenrod and a thousand other species of “weeds” thrive while the stuff we want to eat doesn’t is beyond me at this point. Granted, there are some species out there that I normally value for potential herbal remedies, but still. They could at least stay out of our veggies. So did I use today’s sunshine and get a head start? No. I watched Rollerball.
Some days — like today — it seems so overwhelming to go and try and put my imprint on nature. Who am I, after all? This land we’re stewarding has been here far longer than the house has and will be here long after we’ve gone, too. For some reason, though, I feel an urge to try and convince this land to allow us some modicum of control over its tendencies: veggies here, pasture there, wood trees up there, maple trees on that side. I think in the long run the land will concede somewhat but so far it’s a struggle, the garden patch being a microcosm of the entire property.
By no means am I giving up or relinquishing any of my desire — from where ever that comes — to gain sustenance and support from this little piece of Vermont. Not at all. In fact, when I think about watching Rollerball for a fifth time, I feel myself willingly drawn to the encroaching meadows, invasive poplars and elders, and scarcely-growing vegetables to try once again to exert our vision.
