The day slides through my fingers.  There is something wrong with my chair. I am lightheaded.  I need to moisturize my hands.  I really should meditate (the only thing I like to do less than write).  I should clear the dog of ticks, balance a checkbook, do something, anything, on my To-Do list.  Stretch.  Study Spanish. Learn more about the Russian KGB and Polonium – 210.   Why do I want to write if I hate it so much?

As part of my procrastination efforts, I  garden.  I create a new method of attacking really large and intimidating patches of weeds. Rather than setting an arbitrary amount of space to clear, I first find
something to save, something meaningful and valuable that is being
strangled by the weeds.  My favorite plant to save is the improbable force of a tiny single stemmed native oak (quercus agrifola).

As I work, I create small, saved patches of earth that encircle the oak shoots, and then I clear  between them in a steady way. The work is more sustainable when I create a meaningful narrative.  I am saving something, caretaking something.

I fill two containers with weeds and dump them in the green garden waste bin.  I can’t help thinking they
are somehow evil.  They are  uncompostable, incapable of harmonious

For good measure, I chop down a couple of suckers from the eucalyptus (no idea which type, there are pages of them in the Western Garden book). I pick up fallen sycamore (platanus racemosa) leaves.  The newly fallen bend in my hands, the older ones crackle and send up a small cloud of dust.  I dump them all in the compost.  They will come back into relationship with the garden in a few months, having traded their featherweight forms for dark soil, writhing with worms.


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