In case you’re wondering, our garden is still growing weeds. I’m learning that this is how it goes (so they say): you pull the weeds, they’re gone; then the weeds grow back, and you’re down in the dirt again.
My mom hands me my new gardening gloves, tells me to get back to pulling weeds. She’s down in the mess with me, probably working harder than I am to pull by the root. This is worse than when we weeded the first time, she says. It’s true. We’re busy swatting bugs and wiping sweat, the unwanted weeds growing in piles with the clumps of dirt and mulch.
We decide to make a trip to the local nursery to add some beauty to the tidy beds. My aunt recently gifted me some beautiful pots from her garden as she’s preparing to move. It’s nearly 100 degrees in August and we’re wearing masks walking up and down the outside aisles lined with plants galore. Annuals, perennials, full sunlight, shade. There’s so much to learn, but the garden center closes in 13 hot minutes.
We grab six or so small plants, enough to dip a toe in this potting business, and a couple herbs–-basil, cilantro, and lavender. (Never mind the fact that I might have already killed the basil.)
A day or so later, my mom comes back to help with planting. I have hopes to slip into the zen of gardening that everyone speaks of, you know, find some inner peace. The skies have other plans. The moment we put on our gardening gloves, the winds pick up, the dark storm clouds roll in. We’re both (by chance) wearing dresses that are soaring in the wind.
Suddenly, it’s a race. Grab the bag of potting soil! Quick, fill this pot! I’m dumping and packing in soil faster than a pit crew at the racetrack switching to rain tires. All the while, the heavens are threatening to burst.
I thought gardening was supposed to be RELAXING?! I yell into the groaning wind. We both laugh as we wiggle out plants from the plastic containers, gently loosening the soil, in far-from-tranquil speed.
We make it inside just in time. The plants are potted, settling into their new homes (just in time for a downpour). I’m hardly a gardener, so what do I know, but I can’t imagine that any of us ever really expects the drama of a passing storm.