Zen and the Art of Grass-plucking

During the cool of the early morning or the late evening, I stand and patiently pluck tall fescue from the raised bed where I planted 80 cloves of garlic. Oh, yes, the largest garlic bed ever in my gardening history.

From south to north, the garlic types are Italian Red Rocombole, Chesnok Red, and Music. Yes, it is a new bed. No, I didn't do anything differently when planting the garlic. Until, that is, I decided to cover with wheat straw last fall.

And no, not wheat that is coming up.

The trick is to reach midway down the grass stem with thumb and index finger and yank upward in a quick motion. Stem by stem by stem, in a 4x8 bed with a lot of grass growing. A lot of grass.

Yank, and a release roots and all. If not distracted by bluebirds flying to their condo. Or geese coming in overhead. Then the tall stem may snap in half. No roots in hand.

Yank, release. Yank, release. Head down, yank and release. 

Yank, release. Wonder if the foxes are out. Snap. Yank, release. Yank, release. Listen to the geese squabbling. Snap. Snap. 

Okay, focus. Yank, release. Yank release. Yank, release. 

Sometimes I wander away and attend to other yard matters. The next trip by the bed, I'll yank on a few stems. Concentrate. Yank, release. Yank, release. Snap. 

Dammit.

I try to maintain a certain kind of patience, just the one grass stem, ignoring the dozens and dozens and dozens of other stems. Yank, release. Yank, release.

A slow progress. A single stem. Again and again. Just that one stem. Yank, release. Yank, release. Yank, release.

Sounds kind of zen.

No, not really.

Snap.

So Much Depends...

So much of playtime

depends 

on a large red 

ball

damp 

with morning dew

near the red

wagon

Lyman 2022

Memory Skips

Nine years ago in mid-April I posted the following on my Facebook page: In the heat of the moment, the news of violence, again, what have we learned--nothing that we have not been taught before, that we share this space and time with those that will harm others--the reason will be immaterial, the damage done.

A hot take of a sort then, now cooled down by the passage of time. I can't tell you what happened then to cause my public reaction.

My first guess is the Vegas shooting. No, not even 5 years have passed.

Chemical attack in the Syrian civil war? Yes, nine years ago. In August.

Siege of Sarajevo? Not even close, mid-90s.

Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting? December, 2012.

I do some more research. No, not the Washington Navy Yard attack that killed 13 and wounded 8. Maybe you remember that event was in September of 2013.

Event?

Yes, I am struck too by how I am spending my time--precious time--trying to get at whatever I was getting at back then.

Perhaps the blur of time is the ordinary outcome of life's days, hours, minutes passing by. Perhaps our mind's trick to short circuit a mental overloading--a forgetting, a letting go of.

Yet surely the war in Ukraine will still resonate deeply in 2031. Consider that date: 2031. 

Wow.

I could continue in pursuit of whatever it was that set me off. That's certainly enough of that.

But wait, there's more.

Later that day, 9 years ago, I also posted: Now if not an antidote, at least a reminder.... The gentleman who came into my home to close out my refi was accompanied by his wife. They were so gentle with one another and me, so kind, so gracious, so pleasant.... Turns out I am the second English teacher they worked with today. Something in the air, I said. Oh, yes, they answered. Their son is ready to graduate, an English major, who loves nothing more than reading poetry out loud. Indeed. So as the latest violent act thunders so, as this couple clearly understands, "Ah, love, let us be true to one another".

Yes, indeed.

Spring Rites

The bluebird couple were busily in and out of their condo in my back yard before sunrise this morning despite the 31-degree temperature. Nest building.

We mark spring--many us, at least--not so much by the sun but by scheduled events. My young neighbors are out on spring break. I've seen references to proms via Facebook posts. 

Can graduation be too far behind? Events that long signified spring and an ending of sorts during my classroom career. Now merely anecdotes belonging to others.

I can't help think of students in Ukraine. Russia, too.

Spring as awakening, haphazardly, relentlessly, often splendidly.

Of my three crabapples, the smallest the last two years bloomed first, but last this year. Go figure.

The dwarf peach trees normally bloom within the same week, but not this year. Two weeks apart.

For me, it's not so much the pruning and transplanting launching spring--chores that yield results in the summer, true enough. No, for me, it's seeding the vegetable beds. Allowing the last frost to pass--tomorrow morning perhaps--the soil to warm, the daily highs to climb.

This spring a 12-year-old shot and killed a fellow 12-year-old at an area middle school. It will be that day forever cruelest for parents, families, friends. Teachers, too.

I believe both the resident Red-shouldered hawk and the Great Blue heron are each ready to nest again this season. The geese certainly are. Quite a nursery the past five springs. 

Next year, too? I could not say.

Spring break, daffodils, prom, dogwoods, goslings, maples.... Expectations, fulfilled and unfulfilled. Spring.

Life. Death. Those too.

Oh, by the way, the redbuds seemed especially showy this year. 

#blog #spring #nature