It’s the only thing worth doing really, says G, as we survey her vast, flourishing vegetable garden. Growing food. Yes, I eagerly agree. And learning to get along with people, I add. She doesn’t comment on that. G told me long ago that she prefers birds to human beings.
As usual I mumble something about how I really must get around to getting a proper vegetable garden going. I have a sense of personal failure, fraudulence, about my lack of vegetable garden. ( our vast expanse of self-sown Italian parsley and un-killable pumpkin vines doesn’t count )
I also feel a vague sense of anxiety. Global food shortages, imminent planetary catastrophe etc. ( i.e. ongoing planetary catastophe finally finding its way into our little backwater)
G. sends me off with a basket of greens and eggs from her chooks. Chooks, I really want chooks.
M&M, who I visit at lunchtime (it’s a social day) have chooks too. And a fabulous food-producing garden. Our lunch of veg curry and salad is mostly home grown.
A few weeks back I went down to the local community garden and rented a small plot. It is flat and sunny (unlike the garden at home) and a manageable size. I was all wild enthusiasm and inspiration. Joined up, paid up, and haven’t been back since. It has been school holidays etc. Plenty of excuses.
It’s one of my two resolutions for when we get home next week: Start on veg garden.
Because I know I have to do it. Get my hands in the dirt again. Grow things. It is the sanest thing I can do. G looks way better than when I last saw her six months ago. She seems more alive. She reckons quitting previous stressful activities ( working, performing, teaching) and getting back to gardening has restored her physical and mental health.
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