There are many things that we cannot do now. Yet, there are no doubt things that you love to do, that in the course of your normal life what with the kids’ sports and activities schedule, your own social calendar, work commitments, in short, life as you knew it when you were able to leave your home… you had a hard time finding time for. Remember what that thing is, and do it.
One of these things for me is gardening. I am fortunate to live in San Diego, where the weather is beautiful most of the year, and generally bearable the rest of the time. Unfortunately, the rains seem to be walking lockstep with the Covid-19 lock down restrictions, which is doing little for my state of mind, especially with my whole clan within feet of me all.the.time. It’s as if Gaia’s been shedding tears along with the rest of us. Though perhaps one gift of this Coronavirus is that Earth is finally able to have a bit of a respite from the harms we humans impose on her every day. Hmmm, maybe we humans are Gaia’s Coronavirus. I’ll have to think more about that.
In any case, when the sun has shone (and even when it hasn’t, but when the deluge stops enough to make a jail…errr…house-break), I’m seizing the opportunity to go into the out of doors. My people need the fresh air. And, the change of scenery.
This weekend was beautiful. I decided, if this house is going to be the setting for our whole existence for the foreseeable future, I’m going to make it pretty…(and also prepare myself to live off the land).
So, I gave Armstrong Garden Centers* a ring and placed my phone order (you can also do it online). Two hours later, I called them from my car in the parking lot to pay and popped my trunk, where they deposited my purchases. No physical human contact. Just a giddy smile and a shout of “thank you for being here!” out the window. Then I was on my way….back to bliss!
Here’s another gift of Coronavirus that I think it’s important to acknowledge. I haven’t experienced service like this since I was child. In fact, as I clean my own windows at the gas station, I tell my children about a time when you could actually sit in your car, and a filling station employee would take your payment, put gas in your car, and clean your windows while you fixed your lipstick, or yelled at your kids, or people watched… They stare at me wide-eyed in amazement. “They came to you? An actual person? They did this for you?” “Yes, children. And, back in the day, it was called a ‘service station’” (for a reason!).
Another example. After I stood in line outside the grocery store waiting for the requisite 25-families-every-10-minute-entry-allocation to allow me access, I was greeted by an employee who had already sanitized my cart for me and had it waiting at the door. Do you remember when the grocery store clerks would not only bag your groceries but ask if you needed help out to the car? Those were the days! Maybe that’s next. (And, to be fair, I suppose we kind of have access to an even better service these days, where they deliver your groceries to your door.) I see these nods to service and kindness and generosity coming back in so many ways. Some old. And, some new.
So much of what we clung to, what we orchestrated our lives around, what held primary importance on our schedules…has disappeared in the past week (a week that, by the way, feels like 6 months). I’m swiping deletes on my calendar like crazy these days. But, there are also throwbacks to a past life…maybe our own…maybe a life that was known by those who came before us…that we are able to discover anew.
Gardening is one of these for me. This weekend, I sat on the damp grass, plying the soil with my fingers, feeling the connection to the land that sustains us. I held gently the fragile life of a budding flower that was just beginning…one that I will receive the gift of watching grow as it beautifies what has become the sole setting of our lives. I felt the sun on my face. And, I was happy. Happy to have such a lovely space in which to be sequestered. Happy for the gift of time. Happy for the sun shining. Happy for life that continues to bloom and grow, even in the midst of so much loss. This was a moment of grace. I noted it as such.
Addendum to “Signs that Don’t Wear Signs” post of 3/20/20
Pre-gardening, I was doing some research on what I needed to do to prepare my vegetable bed for tomatoes. Last year, I had an infestation of tomato hornworms. I spent many a day not loving my gardening, as I gagged and cursed and massacred the legions of hornworms that were eating my tomato bounty.
As I watched a video tutorial on preventing hornworms Saturday morning, I was horrified to hear the narrator say that a hornworm is actually the larva that turns into the hawk moth.
All I could think of was that beautiful moth that landed on my lavender just five days ago. You know, the one that I took as my sign that it was time for me to fly the cocoon and emerge into the world? I remembered gazing into its beady black eyes and asking “Friend, are you here to guide me? What do you have to say?” Suddenly, I feared its silent response was, “Bitch, you killed my parents. You and your tomatoes are going down.” Eeeek!
…never mind. Mr. Smarty Pants who sat on the couch with me as I wrote this (after giving me the “Didn’t you learn this in high school?” look) launched into a thorough internet research project. My moth (not the tomato-hornworm-turning-hawk-moth) appears to be a Promethea Moth which has no affiliation with tomatoes or the West Coast for that matter. Crisis averted.
* I do not receive compensation from affiliate links. I really don’t even know what this means, except I’ve seen it when I visit blogging websites from Pinterest as I search for kindergarten craft ideas, or vegan desserts, or organic hornworm remedies. I think it means that no one is paying me for linking to them. I don’t think this should be a surprise to anyone. Hell, I’m still bumbling my way through making this website functional. I’m clearly not that web-sophisticated. However, I like to give props where props are due…and also aid your own searching, if you too are interested in having your gardening goods curbside delivered.
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