This afternoon I pulled up most of my garden… brought in bagfuls of still-green tomatoes (some of which have been on the plants since July), plucked the salvageable leaves off my languishing basil, tucked the nine last little zucchini into my pocket before they began to rot on the vine. And I was melancholy. I am melancholy. That garden of mine seems an apropos metaphor for my own life as of late.
You see, it was a hard summer. I had such expectations, such hopes – for the newness of it and the fecundity and the sense of bounty. Not much surfaced. Like my garden, from which I took no peppers, watermelon, strawberries, rhubarb. A few mealy tomatoes, some zucchini that nowhere near matched my dreams of profuse baseball bats. Some misshapen cucumbers. A proliferation of kale, which I have discovered I like in small, infrequent doses.
I’m trying to remember the hope, despite the lack of rows upon rows of canned homegrown veggies on my shelf. Those last few zucchini are in the oven, baking into my favorite bread. I have a candidate I’m excited to vote for, rather than vote against. My annual donut party is this next weekend, and many lovely people are coming. I met some fabulous neighbors at the park this week and can’t wait to chat with them again as our kids run wild. I’m nearly finished with my latest yarn creation. I work with a fabulous group of people. So, though I am lonely in many ways and have needed this hiatus to regroup, I’m ready to begin again.
I’m getting my seed order ready for the plants that will grow next summer.