A friend’s therapist once told her this about an ill-destined relationship: you can’t love someone’s potential. So true. But can you love your garden’s potential?
I am heady in love with my little patch of earth’s potential. It’s a blank slate again, a canvas for my tomato and squash dreams. A place for cosmos to rise up from the ashes, singing.
This bare swath of garden is like a newborn baby, into which I pour all my hopes and dreams. Seems impossible that it’ll ever erupt with bindweed and tantrums.
Here’s the blank slate from above:
Maybe this will be the year the Colorado nights at 6512 feet don’t exhale chilled breath on my cucumbers, stunting their twining limbs. Maybe we’ll have enough tomatoes to can and dry. Maybe our surviving strawberries will knit themselves into a tight crocheted afghan of green. Maybe the peas will make it past the grubby hands of children and into our kitchen.
At this point of ground zero, anything seems possible.
I found this little chard plant standing brave after shrugging off five feet of snow, full of potential.
Baby parsley, percolating up through the soil.
These ones believe in the potential of grasshoppers:
When we’re out in the garden, dirt-splattered and enraptured
it’s virtually impossible to break for meals. We usually grab the first low-maintenance item presenting itself in the fridge. I found this meal in our sunroom during Sunday’s garden extravaganza, scavenged by Dan on the fly.
Potential for a stomach ache.
I’m also in love with the potential of sitting in the sun, not doing much of anything.
Except squeezing a small daughter creature.
What potential is tugging at you this spring?
*ps: whomever alerted “stumble upon” to my roadkill post is an angel spreading good blog gospel. Thank you.