In the Garden

Spring.

I've been working in the garden.  Of course, I've been loving every moment.  Even when I am stiff and sore and tired, even when it seems like every muscle in my body is screaming out in pain, even then, I love working in the garden.  It has been a long time since I've gotten down and truly dirty in the garden.  Last year my back wasn't up to it.  This year, despite the frustrations at my lack of stamina, and constant fretting at incrementally small improvements in my ability to move, the decision to work slowly, at times painfully slowly, seems to be paying off.  I can do more.  My efforts are paying off in terms of improved ability.  My efforts are paying off in the yard as well.  The bulbs I planted last fall are coming up and blossoms are bursting forth, filling the yard with beauty and my heart with joy.

This spring I've been digging and planting some more, although mostly at this point my work is still preparatory.  A few spring plants have been added, but there is more work to do and I am loving every moment of it.  I wonder how I could have thought, when we left Hyde Park, that I would never want to garden again.  I know how.  I know why.  But those circumstances are in the past.  Too much energy is lost fretting about the past.

But there is something about the earth, about physical contact with this physical place we call home, the pure being of it, the pure life of it that is filling, and enlightening, whether one is sitting on a beach, walking in the woods or a park, just noticing the smell of the grass, of the earth, the texture of leaves and the way they change from limp unfurling to tight, springy maturity, to fragile death.  There is nothing like a day or two in the garden to put one's sense of malaise, of tension and unease to rest.

This spring I've been digging.  There was one flower bed that was never completely properly dug.  I avoided it most of last year, letting the grass grow rampant because I couldn't easily uproot it from the packed clay.  It took me most of the fall just to get most of the grass out.  By then I was too exhausted to actually dig however, and perhaps not yet strong enough.  Now I am, although it took me a couple of days and it is not that big of a flower bed. 

The first day I dug up the back portion, just dug, no hauling away.  Digging is hard work, but not necessarily that hard on my back.  That section, probably only 9 or 10 square feet, was difficult for me.  The clay was packed hard and mixed with rocks and bits of concrete and metal and general construction detritus.  No wonder I couldn't plant anything.   My legs ached, my shoulders and arms ached. But my low back was fine.  At least it was fine until I went around to the front bed where I needed to move a small azalea that had been put in the wrong place, a spot hidden behind a bigger tree, a spot with too much sun.  Digging in that bed was easy, the soil deep and rich.  The hard part was actually lifting the shrub and getting it into its new home.  The hard part was transferring that dirt dug from one hole, now filled with a plant, to the other hole, now devoid of plant and waiting for soil.  That is the part of gardening that continues to be hard.  But still necessary and fulfilling.  One day's work done, to be followed by stretching, an extended floor workout to relieve a tense back, and a long walk.  

Yesterday I finished digging up that recalcitrant back bed, the one on the northwest corner.  I dug out the hellebores that had been planted there, and which were struggling.  Obviously so considering how they were impacted in hard clay and rock.  Then I dug up the rest of the bed.  About a third of it was easy soil, about a third of it had been properly dug the first time around, about half of the area around the smoke tree.  As for the rest of the bed, it seems a wall had been laid, but no digging had taken place. Until now.  I actually, was happy to dig, happy to have my hands in the dirt, happy to be out there, stubbornly, making something beautiful. There is something very satisfying about heart-pounding, muscle-screaming work, something exhilarating in the final product.

The digging was hard, but not hard on my back.  The part that was actually difficult for me was the hauling away of a good portion of the heavy chunks of clay and rock.   I knew I couldn't lift clay in a shovel and put it in a cart.  That would involve too much weight too far forward of the body.  But I could sit on the ground and lift chunks, scoop up piles of looser clay and gravel, crawl and carry and lift clay into my small cart.  It was not dignified but it was effective.  Too much concern about dignity is often a waste of energy that could be better used elsewhere.  I could load my cart, my small cart, half the size of a small wheelbarrow, and haul that clay off to the side and dump it down the hill into the woods, where clay had been dumped before.  A small cart meant more trips and tired legs and arms, but it was manageable.  I'm not convinced I could have handled a wheelbarrow.  In fact, at one point, I lost control of my small cart and fell down the hill, trampled by cart.  I emerged dirty and bruised but unbroken.  I am not sure that the results would have been so minor had I been run over by a larger load of heavy clay.

I mostly finished that bed last night, just as darkness fell; mostly but not quite finished.  I hadn't purchased quite enough garden soil.  I'll be off to the garden center this morning.  I hope the rain holds off until all of the soil is in and blended, ready for planting.  I'd like to get those hellebores back in the ground, in somewhat more hospitable soil.  I'd like to plant, but if the rains come and help settle that soil, all the better for planting later.  Once the soil is in I will need a break.  Shoveling, raking, blending new soil with the existing soil is the hard part.  Just as planting small plants, bending, and reaching, is harder than the digging was, low-back wise.  Of course the digging was harder work overall.  I'm sure others could have finished the job more easily than I.  But my satisfaction in having done it myself is a sweet reward. Life is not a race.  The end result is worth the wait.  The goal is to take care, to help beauty flourish, to nurture this earth that nurtures us.

I was wrong when I left Hyde Park and thought I'd never want to garden again.  Circumstances are different.  I love the smell of the earth, the feel of the soil against my fingers, even the feel of the clay.  Gardening clears my mind and my soul and reminds me of what is essential and important. I am grateful to have rediscovered the joy of dirt, of labor, of my own sometimes pig-headed determination, and the gentle smell of a fresh blade of grass.