Feral and Full-on

Two summers ago, I came into possession of one of those “a line a day” five-year journals. Since then, I’ve been able to remember to write in it every few days or so, catching up on as much as two weeks at a time when I’m really busy. Ideally, I’d be doing my entries daily, perhaps every evening as part of a bedtime routine. But routine is something I feel almost allergic to, especially as a gardener in the month of June.

The only routine to speak of presently is that which has come naturally: how I now am up at dawn without even trying, happy and bright and eager to plunge my hands in the dirt, eager for the sun’s kiss, for the music of birds and bees and the wind in the trees and the sparkling song of the river.

Every day is different in the garden, and the work is never done. The pursuit of beauty and the joy it is to help life thrive are what urge one forward. In the thick of it, I’m so caught up that I forget to eat until forced to by a feeling of faintness, and many a time I’ve fallen into bed with bits of leaf and twig in the tangle of my hair, my skin still crusted in dirt and dried blood from tussles with roses or a blackfly bite.

Gardening is at once an out-of-body experience and one that grounds me firmly in my body. And when I’m at it, I can’t stop. I’m addicted to every aspect of it, from the glamorous (think: a pink iris in full bloom at seven in the morning, white flowers aglow in the moonlight) to the downright gruelling (turning compost, raking up… ).

Perhaps what I love the most about gardening is that I don’t need a routine to get me to do it and to do it all day, every day, from the top of the morning to the tip of the night. As a love, it is complete. Challenging, fulfilling, richly rewarding. Such a love is a rare thing indeed in this life.

This morning, I woke up on a lake in the Kawartha Highlands at my in-laws’ cottage, here for a few days between the end of Lu’s school year and taking her to the summer camp where she’ll spend the first two weeks of July. I caught up on my “line a day” journal - the last time I’d written in it was ten days ago - and began a sort of mental walk of shame towards writing this post.

My intention to write regularly about the garden as I’m gardening has proved to be no more than an intention. I’ve been moving too fast, favouring the more delicious tasks (those that involve sweat, dirt, sun, water, sometimes even blood) and putting off that which requires I slow down (writing!). But today, “stuck” up north on a lake, somewhat bereft of my garden, forced inside by cold, cloudy weather, I am comforted by the fact that words remain here for the plucking. Words. Evergreen words, perennial and long-suffering. Neglect them as I might, they stand by.

The month of June is like the Black Locust blossom (false Acacia) that blooms in this month, or sometimes, if it’s very hot, in late May. You won’t necessarily catch it if you’re adhering to a precise routine. Here and gone all too quickly, it is meant to be savoured in haste. If you slow down too much - if you wait - you will miss it. It has to be seized. And as gardeners, we need to know that it is okay to act like an animal sometimes, to be feral and full-on and so in love with what you’re doing that you don’t shower and you forget to eat.

The final thing I ate before going into labour with Lu was Acacia* beignets, and that was my first time. Before her bio dad- introduced me to them, I didn’t know it was a thing you could do! Just be careful, if you make these, to only consume the flowers, as the rest of the plant is toxic. Check out the recipe I like here: https://www.apronandsneakers.com/2012/05/fiori-dacacia-fritti-fried-black-locust.html.