I think gardening is a lot like voting. Exactly like voting, actually.
It's not for weenies, for sure. It's not neat or tidy or perfect. There's muck to wade through that gets under the nails that is hard to clean out, and there's snakes and bugs and mice. Gardeners deal with someone else's shit to mix the old with the new in the hopes that something good will come of it.
Gardeners think about the goal. They have learned how it works and their role in providing fertile soil, water, and sunlight for them to grow to be self supporting. Most gardeners don't garden in the dark behind closed doors. They rotate their crops, not because they want to but because if they don't the crops will fail.
Once the plants are in, things don't happen automatically. The plants need extra support and fertilizer when they are new. There's squirrels and birds that pick off the plants and crops that the gardeners are counting on. There's whiteflies and grubs and blight that can kill off the chance of success if left untreated.
The Garden is where all these lessons are taught. It is constantly changing and the Gardener has to adapt. Experience through the years has taught them that being informed makes them better, and offers them the best chance for success.
Gardeners don't give up. They pool their years of learning and experimenting, and finally know their plants for what they are. If a coastal artichoke plant can't take the heat of a valley summer, and they've already planted it, there's only two choices: move it under the shade of an olive and take on the responsibility to baby it along and mist it daily, or pull it out by the roots and plant something else.
May 18, 2017
A Day in the Life
A friend called me at 6 am the other day to say her 20-something son had died. I can't believe that was January 14th.
For the last 10 years I had imagined getting her call, so much so that when it came it didn't seem real. Don't come, was the last thing I heard her say as I scooped up my keys.
His mother fought an exhausting battle for and against him, and tossed everything she had in the way. His mother spent hundreds of thousands of dollars funding treatment and researching counseling programs and rehab facilities. He was never far from her thoughts; even when he gave her no reason to believe in him she did. They stayed connected. She gave him more boundaries, more chances and more weapons to fight his Demons than anyone I know.
Why isn't there a word in language to define what this feels like? Something that defines the anguish, despair, and deep longing left behind; the sense of responsibility for a woman who takes seriously her duty to protect and nurture at every age; a word that tears at the heart where a boil has formed that will never heal. A word that others instantly recognize because have known that type of pain.
We sat outside with an adult beverage and held hands as the memories flooded over her. We talked about free will and the moment a person unintentionally gives that over to a drug. We talked of how smart he was, with such promise and big smiles, and I cried as we looked at the boxes of pictures knowing I had the very same shots of my own boys at Little League, in their high chair eating Spaghetti, laughing at a birthday party, looking grateful on Christmas morning.
My son came, her sister and cousins and friends and even the neighbors, to rally around and share their love. I gazed at my son, wondering how he didn't stall in the exploratory drug phase of middle school even though I was wild with worry and he was just as much a pain in the butt. I fought just as hard as my friend, and I threw all the obstacles in his way that I could find, just like she did.
My son and many of their mutual friends stood together at the memorial service from the old neighborhood and the old days. Most are leading wonderful lives with bright futures and a life full of promise.
Michael A. Zenti, you should have been one of them.
For the last 10 years I had imagined getting her call, so much so that when it came it didn't seem real. Don't come, was the last thing I heard her say as I scooped up my keys.
His mother fought an exhausting battle for and against him, and tossed everything she had in the way. His mother spent hundreds of thousands of dollars funding treatment and researching counseling programs and rehab facilities. He was never far from her thoughts; even when he gave her no reason to believe in him she did. They stayed connected. She gave him more boundaries, more chances and more weapons to fight his Demons than anyone I know.
Why isn't there a word in language to define what this feels like? Something that defines the anguish, despair, and deep longing left behind; the sense of responsibility for a woman who takes seriously her duty to protect and nurture at every age; a word that tears at the heart where a boil has formed that will never heal. A word that others instantly recognize because have known that type of pain.
We sat outside with an adult beverage and held hands as the memories flooded over her. We talked about free will and the moment a person unintentionally gives that over to a drug. We talked of how smart he was, with such promise and big smiles, and I cried as we looked at the boxes of pictures knowing I had the very same shots of my own boys at Little League, in their high chair eating Spaghetti, laughing at a birthday party, looking grateful on Christmas morning.
My son came, her sister and cousins and friends and even the neighbors, to rally around and share their love. I gazed at my son, wondering how he didn't stall in the exploratory drug phase of middle school even though I was wild with worry and he was just as much a pain in the butt. I fought just as hard as my friend, and I threw all the obstacles in his way that I could find, just like she did.
My son and many of their mutual friends stood together at the memorial service from the old neighborhood and the old days. Most are leading wonderful lives with bright futures and a life full of promise.
Michael A. Zenti, you should have been one of them.
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