Yesterday, as I dug up Day Lilies in a most congested area whilst listening to the end of A Movable Feast, I wondered if my love for gardening hadn’t taken root as a way to dig up words and sort out thoughts. Here, under the Red Maple, I shoveled - not a small area where the yellow saggy-balled tubers would be, but a larger swath. The clump of yellowed villains was pinned down in a palimpsest of root and rhizome, protected by the Solomon’s Seal with their plumish points emerging, and those of the drifty and aggressive blackened native Sensitive Fern.
I had to lift the entire tapestry out of the earth, patch by patch, and sort through those to keep and replant, and those to murder. I have a bag filled with tubers, much too heavy to lift; so complex is their torment that I cannot simply throw them in the compost pile but must submit to big plastic bags.
When I ungarden, when I dig and sweat and move, there is a loosening — like that of the soil itself, and thoughts that I knew were there rise up, tangled with forgotten memories, and new thoughts, too. Words and stories move around in my head and it feels a little like reaching into the soil in the liriope area, where I am satisfied to find and rip out what I am after, but feel something else is near. I did find a few small pieces of English Pottery, but this isn’t the thrill. Maybe I have to clear out the detritus first, and there is a lot of it.
This is also how my 100 Day Project is going — both are happening at once out here. Without a specific book to work in and keep track of progress and day count, a lot of unbidden stuff is just rising up. It feels chaotic and messy. My fingernails won’t scrub clean, scratches and gouges enflame, the moisture is sucked from my flesh, and ticks creepy crawl, but I sing and my muscles burn as I rake and pull and cut on the hillside. It begins like this. The good things always do.
If you live near West Chester and would like a bucket of these native rhizomes let me know and I’ll set them aside in front of our shop.
I can’t even..”but I sing and my muscles burn as I rake and pull and cut on the hillside. It begins like this. The good things always do.”
I bought my very first journal yesterday (because of you) and at the beautiful age of 65 I’m finally going to try putting on paper what is in my head when I’m outside 🩷🩷
“I had to lift the entire tapestry out of the earth, patch by patch…” Unearthly poetry. Even the murdering part…