My garden is on my brain lately.
That I have been finding traces of last year's garden in books throughout my house, is only half of the "problem."
I spend pretty much all waking hours thinking about my garden in some form.
I think about the new buds appearing everywhere.
I think about the tender young vegetables I am putting in the ground.
And how I can get rid of the critters that threaten to destroy them.
I think about sections of the yard that have annoyed me forever. And then I take my shovel and attack them.
I think about the ways I can make it better. And so, for instance, I add an herb garden.
I think about irises passed down to me by my mother, which were passed down to her by my father's mother.
I think about the little places of beauty I am creating.
I hope it brings as much joy to those passing by as it does to me. I was digging quietly in the yard the other day, when I saw a young man kneel down outside my fence and spend about five minutes crouching there strangely. When I realized he was photographing my columbine, my heart swelled with pride. I garden primarily for myself, and the peace it brings me, but I would be lying if I didn't admit it makes me happy to know others are noticing as well.
I garden for the connection with something bigger than myself.
Sure, it probably appeals to me on some very basic level because of the great many number of cheesy metaphors that can be made out of the activity. I garden to plant the seed of the future...I garden to grow closer to myself and others....I garden to nourish something bigger...I garden...yada yada yada...