March 23. I need to stop saying to myself, need to stop thinking that the gardening season is charging ahead without me, that I’m behind. Wondering if I’m that way with all of life: thinking I’m playing catch-up, worrying I’m lacking or deficient when, actually, things are fine. I have so many seedlings growing (oh so painfully slowly, but yes, growing) in the greenhouse (is it the temperature fluctuation? (too much heat midday, then down to mid-40s at night), or maybe things get dry, then I water them, then dry, then water and here I am with very…..very…very…slowwwwwww growwwwwwing seedlings.
Or, maybe everything is ok. Or at least ok enough,
And so today, between the pain in my back and right back thigh and knees, I raked leaves from the front yard beds, set stepping stones, pulled winter weeds, generally cleaned up the place, the front yard south-side creek bed, preparing the plots for plants and compost and seeds. And two of my four grandchildren were here today, making me smile, giving me joy. And distracting me from gardening. Garden work interspersed with grandchildren work, core, crucial, joyful walks and playing and listening. And all the while both gardening and grandchildren keeping me from writing, from reading, from studying.
Not sure how I’d do anything differently. Not sure I want to do anything differently.
Pretty sure this is how the literary life, at least for me, at least for now, goes.