The greenhouse experiment that I built, rebuilt, held together (literally) in windstorms, and finally surrendered and dismantled. All the places indoors and out where fragile seedlings tried to find a home for their first weeks. The dozens of seeds that never sprouted. Nine gorgeous and healthy zucchini plants, the first to take off and thrive, which were completely devastated, eaten down to the ground by a squashbug invasion. Sweat and dizzy labor under midday sun, since my work schedule doesn't allow me much time mornings or evenings.
The lovely deep peace that comes while carrying water -- a three-gallon bucket and a green watering can -- out to the rows on occasions between irrigating. (We've all been trying to run the well pump just once a week here, those of us who share this land. Sometimes that's not enough).
Thoughts going out to all the women and children around the world who, right now, are carrying water by hand over uneven ground, because they have no other choice. Prayers that we wake up and realize, many more of us, the preciousness of our water.
Imagining that my work is more than fun, more even than learning experience. That my community depends on the success of my labors, to eat. What a fantastic responsibility that would be. Right now, our diet would be all green and leafy: spinach, basil, cilantro, chard, lamb's quarter, epazote. But a little later in the summer, just maybe...I've learned not to count seeds, blooms, plants, as any of these might be gone tomorrow. But if nothing happens, nothing more than the ordinary mystery of rootdeep and rainfall and photosynthesis, there just might be corn. Sometime soon. Almost two weeks ago, Corn Maiden graced me unexpectedly with her presence. Only after I took this photo of the new ears did her image become clear. Giving me hope. And gratitude for the chance to labor along with the Earth in this little way.
