Somehow I am always surprised to look up and find myself in the middle of September. I don’t know why this is. Summer passes so fast, still year after year I reach this side only to look back toward May with a bit of nostalgia, and guilt.
My intentions were so genuine on those cool Spring mornings. This is the year, I tell myself, I will tend to my garden with attention and love. I will mulch. I will fertilize. I will water. Every day, if that’s what it requires. No matter how late I get home or how tired I feel—I WILL WATER.
You know where this is going. My commitment wanes in direct proportion to the rising South Carolina heat.
And so I found myself, once again this September, with a garden barely hanging on. I made my way to the roses, pruning sheers in hand, and did the most civilized thing I could. I started cutting, removing the starved branches, collecting leaves dotted with black spot for disposal far from other living things.
In no time, the deed was done. I offered yet another apology—as well as a few words of encouragement—to the stripped garden. Then I walked back to the kitchen thinking hard about the power of nature to forgive and rejuvenate.
Just this past Sunday I looked out through the screen porch and marveled at what I saw. Amid the thorns, one single, surviving, perfect yellow rose.
30 Days of Grace
Broccoli! I am inspired!!!
I am always sad to pull out the summer garden. What does make me happy is knowing that I have another chance at a fall batch of lettuce, spinach and broccoli. Consider using a timer and drip hose, too. Even the most diligent waterer can’t keep up with the relentless summer heat.
Here’s to you, Kat, and the anticipation of your new season filled with light and love and Rosemary, the most trustworthy of herbs.
“The power of nature to forgive and rejuvenate.”
This spring, I too, committed to tending my garden. I planted a row of herbs in small pots on my balcony (number #177 on my life list) and proceeded to be happy every time I saw them. I watered them. I nurtured them. They grew. And then summer came, and I started dreaming about where I’ll go next. I spent all my weekends (and some of my weekdays) elsewhere. Yep — my sweet, thriving herbs died. I was never around to water them. You could call this a metaphor for my time in Columbia. When I’d come home and see those brown stalks, I’d always feel slightly uneasy, wondering what I could have differently. But last week I decided to clear out the pots. I returned the potting soil and the dead plants to the earth. And now I have a neat stack of pots waiting to go with me wherever I end up, for my next balcony herb garden.
(Sorry my comment turned into a book. We just really are kindred spirits.)