But just slightly.
Everyday, upon returning home from a long day of sitting under florescent lights in front of the luminous glow of a computer, I peek in on our hanging baskets filled with fuchsias. We’ve struggled with hanging baskets in the past–they need daily watering since they’re not in the ground–and we are determined that this year’s blooms will live.
The broccoli is about to take over the world. The spinach is so green, Oz is envious. We lost one lettuce, but the other three heads happily add their crisp, sweet crunch to my daily turkey sandwich. The carrots have finally sprouted, as have the squash. Our cucumbers are coming back to life and the tomatoes–well, the tomatoes continue to climb and tease me with notions of what will soon be born from their blossoms, then cradled in their branches. They know they’re my favorites and they grin at my impatience, soaking up every ounce of my adoration, like water from the spigot.
On to the flowers, mixed with strawberries and herbs. I dote and weed as though they were one in the same. I can’t help but tell them how lovely they are, how happy I’m that they are growing, and what a wonderful job they are doing at it. I gurgle over the sprouts just now emerging from the soil, so precious and new. A few are struggling so I make certain I stoop to take a bit of extra time, encouraging, massaging the earth, coaxing them upward, promising them that there will be no greater joy than in filling the measure of their creation.
Finally, I stop at the wisteria and breathe her sweetness. Her blossoms in bunches, like grapes on the vine, fill my dreams with purple. I carefully wind her wayward vines back into the lattice, giving them direction, stability, and promise.
Yes. I might be slightly obsessed. But I cannot “help but grow wise with such teachings as these.” For in this garden, I see–my own beginnings, my growth, my falters, my renewal, my trellis, my direction, my purpose.
These days, I cannot get enough of our garden.
I cannot get enough of my life.