Garden, that is.
We’ve had a garden of some sort since we moved to Eugene. Last year our property manager and neighbor put in three beds in the back, and one was for us. Long, narrow beds, mounded up on the ground. We planted. Potatoes and leeks, onions and kale, lettuces, and basil. Everything but the leeks came out bitter. In the front lawn we planted tomato and pepper. We’ve got herbs in the front garden, too, and nettle, and other, inedible plants. And, because you need to tend your garden year long here and we haven’t, both gardens are totally taken over by clover.
Can I be honest? Let’s be honest. I hate our back plot. It requires too much bending and stretching, too much reaching, and it doesn’t get enough light. Every garden I’ve had, I’ve had to “make do” and not have it exactly the way I want it. What do I want? Raised beds that are easy to weed and easy to water and easy to get to. Containers. But this year? This year, I don’t want any. This year, I don’t want to garden. Not even for foodstuffs.
We have a wonderful farmers market (that opens in weeks! WEEKS!!) here in Eugene. I love being able to go out into our yard and get food, but this year I don’t want to have to worry about it. This year, I want to write. I want to take walks. I want to put my time where I want it to go.
I don’t want to maintain a garden. And somehow, that feels terrible. Like, I’m an awful earth-conscious pagan. Like, I’d fail miserably at homesteading, so it’s a good thing I’m not trying to homestead. Like, I’m a horrible person, and there are people who would love to grow even some of their own food, so I really should just do it, since I can.
But I don’t want to. And so, I’m not going to.