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.