It’s been a few weeks since my last post and I thought, given that I have a choice (being a rainy day) between blogging and going to the garden centres to spend on beautiful things, I thought it might be a good idea to start by posting…and then if there’s time go to the garden centres!

The lilacs are beginning to open their leaves with a fresh, lime coloured felt that soars up twelve feet.  I’m really pumped because I’ve always loved lilacs, and these apparently are going to open up to a very old deep purple variety.  You can see the progress the boys are making on the house, and it’s an interesting experience sharing the lot with them as they hammer away.  Last week David and I helped them install the picture window, which seemed like it would be daunting at first, but ended up not being so tough given our new neighbour came over with advice and a can of beer.  While Jarred and Dave tear the house apart, I tear up the lawn.  Two new flower beds have gone in, both double dug, one got ahold of the delphinium which is poking it’s head out now, the russian sage I’m not 100% sure about (it always came late here at Gladder, I’m hoping it’s just thinking about it’s options at this point, two packets of poppies, a packet of wild flowers around the Marian corner, and an entire white envelope of hollyhock seeds which are refusing to germinate.  I think the soil, because it’s in direct sun, is going to be too hot for them to sprout.  Good thing I dug up five or six plants and brought them over.  I think I’m probably going to dig up another five or six of the big roots and take them over.  The mature leaves wilt, but new leaves quickly sprout up and start to soak up the sun.  I need to dig another couple of beds for the tomatoes.  There are going to be a lot of tomatoes.  I think I’m going to be making friends with people through tomatoes.  One old guy at the condo I clean gave me eight plants in white styrofoam cups that are supposed to grow up to nine feet tall and produce tomatoes like little grapes.  Good thing I’m getting good at digging up turf.

Onions are starting to poke their heads up, but nothing from the potatoes yet.  Garlic?  I see one little sprout poking it’s head up.  The compost pile is starting to steam when I turn it…or that might just be dust kicking up, either way it’s breaking down and will be good food for the dirt come frost in September/October.  I also put in  a package of an ancient barley from the British Isles, a grain that very probably my ancestors were harvesting in their kilts.

The lilies are filling in, and the perennials that I moved into the border are also waking up and taking to their new spaces.  I realized as I was putting in the welsh onions (that little dark line just up top of the lilies, above photo) that the cottage garden thing is shaping up but confining itself to the veg patch.  It’s not a bad thing!  The space in the back waddle has got a path of some kind needing to come out of it, and the oodles of perennials I’ve got can make dividing spaces in the garden itself.  I’m beginning to see that the room is running out.  Dad said he wants to put in cucumbers, and I may have to sacrifice the zucchini so he can have a patch for them, and I’m not even beginning to have a clue where the peas and beans are going to go, but I have to get out to the valley in short order and cut lots of red willow to build the trellises for both of them, not to mention the sweet peas.

The next nice day we get (probably Friday) will be seeding the carrots and the radishes.  The seed packets on my desk are getting fewer and fewer.

Dave and Jarred mentioned to me that it might be a better position for the pond beside the garage between the garden and the garage.  This way, the pond will get plenty of morning sun and shade in the late day, with a little evening sunshine and less of a chance at becoming a festering pool of algae.  I had to actually think about this, not about the common sense position of it all, but realizing that it may not be this year that the pond goes in.  My goal was to get a shovel, and the liners, dig the hole, get the pond done and ready for the May long week-end.  The only problem being that the outside of the garage is going to need to be fixed up and having a pond there might in fact be detrimental for anyone backing up while they’re taking off or putting on siding, or the life that may be living in the pond itself!  I’m smelling a later summer/early fall project.  Digging it by hand will be a lot harder than having someone do it with a backhoe; but I’m digging that the extra work that is going in is man-powered, me-powered.

Then again, when the back hoe shows up I might just take advantage of Chad’s good nature and let him dig the damn pond.

Even with all the noise, the dogs next door, the guys in the house, I spend a few minutes tucked in a corner just soaking it up and the nosies and everything just…disappear.  I think if I could live in that yard I probably would.  Having the deck off my bedroom with big sliding doors I can look out of when I wake up in the morning, looking into that space first thing every day before I even get out of bed…..what a way to live.  What a great way to live.

You know that spring in Saskatchewan has arrived when you hear that unmistakable sound of the sandhill cranes returning on their way to Condie Nature Refuge.  It’s unlike anything else in the world, different from the hundreds of geese that fly over.  I’ve been hearing them a lot lately.

Yesterday I started dismantling the rocks from the west flower bed, a couple of milk crates worth, and took them over to the house to put around the round flower bed which is going to become the Marian shrine.  It only took about half an hour, but under a lot of rocks were little ant colonies, some red, some black, all panicking because I was taking their warmth and shelter away from them.  I felt a little bad about it, and I actually had to talk myself out of not taking the rocks.  Its trivial perhaps to be working about ants, but even they have a part to play in aerating the soil, bringing in small bits of debris that slowly compost.  And they pollinate!

The rocks in the back yard are stunning.  I think originally they were placed there to keep the lining around the garden in place, but I couldn’t help but pull them out and stipple them between clusters of the rocks I collected 2-3 years ago from Last Mountain Lake.  I may yet return out there to get more rocks for the pond, which won’t be going where I though it would be.

Dave was at the house again, and we spent some time in the back yard discussing how the deck will come off of my bedroom, which direction the stairs will go.  The place I thought would be best for the fire pit ends up being the worst place, so the fire pit will end up in the middle of the yard, and I’m actually seeing a circular patio of stone or brick around it, and of course more places for flower beds to go around that.  Wood ash is good for fertilizing lots of different plants so the fire pit will not only be recreational, but a functional part  of the continued growth of the yard front and back.  The pond that I initially thought would go into the centre of the yard and create a kind of parterre is going to end up being the long rectangular pond I had wanted, but pressed against the east side of the garden.  Because it was so nice yesterday, 20C, I took the opportunity to put in the perennials I’d dug up.  The garden isn’t just garden anymore, the peony is in the south-east corner so that it will come up and bloom behind the existing peony bed, the lilies and gas plant are now lining the east side of the garden so there’ll be a wall of green and colour separating the vegetables from the rest of the yard.  And I may still yet take turf up along the back pathway to plant the perennials I have growing in my house on the windowsill and under the grow lights.

And just when I thought it was finishes…I look up to see that the ivy geranium I’ve kept in a pot for the past four years has just opened it’s blooms.  Burgundy.

Life is freaking good in a garden.

BITCH, PLEASE!?

In case you haven’t seen the snow melt the last three times, back by popular demand, featuring 5 more centimetres of the white stuff, idiot landlords shovelling half the walks, and young men and women who can’t remember how to drive in the snow (remember, two weeks ago, when there was ice on the road and you knew how to do it?), and OH yes.  All that open, warming dirt?

So what I wonder is, are the tomatoes leaning towards the window because they want to see the tragedy, or do the birds that come back along with the gophers that have woken up wonder….da fuq??

Good Friday I headed into the yard to do some raking.  Not just raking, but introducing myself and getting to know the lay of the small piece of land that is the yard I’m adopting and caring for.  This is the first real day of work I’ve done here and the more that I step into the space and actually sweat in it, the more it sinks in that this is my yard.  So I started to rake, knowing that I would be putting the dead debris into a pile behind the garden.  In my mind I had this image of a set of compost bins neatly in the back, filled with varying degrees of composting matter.  But when I showed up at the yard what I realized was the practical, affordable treatment was to just build a pile.  So, knowing the minimum is roughly three feet by three feet by three feet, I started trimming back perennials and … wow.   I think there’s a bed of peonies!

Yup I know, it looks like a pile of leaves.  I trimmed back quite a bit of wet and deteriorating leaves and pulled away the bits of rope and wood that were holding the flowers up.  You can see one stick still in the ground, that I left in the ground, because you can never know when your’e going to need a long, forked, rough stick.  I snipped the leaves down into smaller pieces and spread them on the ground:  the bottom layer of the compost pile.  Next, I went around to the other bed, and started pulling out dead marigolds, banging off the dirt and breaking them up slightly so I can layer wet, then dry, then wet. That’s when I came across the surprises.  The perennials that already exist, and are starting to poke themselves out of the ground.  A mound of iris that is about three feet by there feet, so old that the centre of the mound has gone punky.

Ok it’s tough to see.  But those little green dots scattered all through the mountain of dirt, leaves, and other debris are the sprouts of the irises that will be blooming for me this year.  Even more exciting was the realization that the circular bed with the huge mound cedar in it is also filled with dead leaves….not just any dead leaves, but dead leaves that look like there are at least 60-70 bulbs attached to them.  I didn’t touch this bed.  I left it exactly as I found it, unable to see anything sprouting as of yet.  No doubt in the next few days something is going to poke itself out of the ground as the daytime temperatures are going to climb into the mid-high teens…celsius.

And, wonder of wonders, the gas plant looks like it’s actually thriving.  Well, as much as you can see at this early stage of growth.  The way I’m looking at it, that little lump of green next to the top-left dead branch in the pot has grown at least 3 cm.  If it’s still growing, then the roots can’t have been damaged that badly.  I’m going to make sure when I put it into the ground with the others that I had potted up to throw in some store-bought compost into the bottoms of the holes to give them a jumpstart.   But the best part, the bit that made my heart leap, is that the gas line has been marked.  And it goes out towards the north side of the yard and runs along the fence.  Which means….

Pond.  There gonna be pond.  Big pond.  Also there gonna be new paint job and yes, new roof.  I know.  After raking up 3-4 shingles from the flower bed I looked up and gasped a little bit.  Ok I gasped a lot.

The other thing that came to me is how the sidewalk that runs to the garage is the perfect place for a seating area, maybe a barbecue or a fire pit.  Still so much to do, and yet it feels as if this space is becoming mine more and more each day that I work in it.  The rocks I collected for the flower bed here at the apartment are going to be lifted, washed, and put around the circular flower bed.  The last few lilies that are poking their heads out of the ground here will be lifted and taken over.  The really challenging move for me is going to be the wisteria.  I’m not sure it will survive, but the reality is that if it stays here it won’t have a chance.  White trash don’t care.  Just saying.

Raking did something else for me.  It gave me a better understanding on how the land shifts and moves, where the high spots and the low spots are.  A rectangular pond might look good provided the land is flat, but it isn’t.  About 3/4 towards the back yard it dips down before the vegetable garden begins, which in the world of ponds does provide a bit of a problem.  It may end up having to be a square pond which won’t be an issue particularly.  And fish or, what I’m staring to lean towards more, a nature pond with an abundant amount of plants to encourage wildlife, and hopefully in time frogs!

Frogs…which sounds like a good idea now, but when there are 100 of them in the pond chirping 24/7 and the neighbours start to complain, and I can’t get to sleep because of the noise….ok maybe a bass or two….

The reality hit me when I was talking with Dave who came out for a smoke and a Pepsi, taking a break from the drywall work in the house.  In just a few short weeks I’m going to have to buy a lawn mower.  And a few short weeks from that, a lawn chair or two.  A week from that, plants can start going into the ground.  Then the loan application…then the move. It’s all happening fast, and the really crazy thing is I don’t think about it that often.  It’s the first time something huge has happened, begun to happen, and I’m not worried about it.  I’m more concerned to be honest about the syringes that have popped up around my flower beds here.

Mental note:  avoid Boardwalk.  Avoid Gladmer Park.  Just saying.

I’ve lingered and hummed and hawed about writing this post for most of the day now, and yet I think the topics that it brings up are just as important for gardening and the inner cell of the soul as they are for writing and the ethics of the self.  It’s a philosophical question; I haven’t done much in terms of serious thoughtful philosophy for a few months so maybe this is a good opportunity to do it in the context of the events that recently took place.

After I posted yesterday, I received a text message from an individual who was mentioned in the post, asking that I remove any connection between their real life self and the persona they use in writing their blog.  This individual explained to me that they didn’t want there to be any connection between themselves and the narrating voice of the blog.  A nome de plum, I suppose.  In the words of the first text message I received, the voice of the blog is offensive and this individual author didn’t want that voice to be tied back to him/her.

So I did something that in the last few days I have seen done on forums that I had subscribed to.  I went into the post and deleted/edited references.  In the particular forums I subscribe to, posts have been removed because some individuals found them offensive not because they were offensive, but because they pointed out truths about the world that are uncomfortable for some people to accept or look at.  Censorship, basically.

This actually gave me some considerable things to chew on after I received the messages.  First and foremost, it points out to me that the culture in which we live utilizes tools, namely the internet and mobile devices (yes, I’m writing on a MacBook right now so I’m as guilty as the rest) that permit us certain liberties that we didn’t have in the past, namely being able to say and do whatever we want without there being perceived consequences towards the individuals that we write about.

Pot-Kettle?  Not necessarily.

After spending the bulk of the evening trying to consider a response, any response, to what seemed like a rather incredulous request I decided that the best thing to do was simply remove the reference.  Did I feel sick for having to edit?  A little.   A part of me felt like I was becoming involved by editing out the reference, condoning what is really nothing but, let’s face it, anonymous trolling although written extremely well.  How can I make that judgement?  What gives me the right to make that judgement?

I’m in the blog.

Bianca Del Rio is an insult comic.  She walks out into a crowd, finds people, points out their defects with wild and sometimes sharp stinging comments, but it gets a laugh.  Even though she’s wearing make up, she’s out there, she’s honest about what she’s doing.  She tells the audience before she begins “Are you ready for me to be a hurtful angry ****?” and people love it because she’s not hiding it.  There’s an agreement between Bianca and her audience.  She’s going to use them, and they’re going to use her, and everyone (mostly everyone) will get a huge laugh out of it.

The internet, and the age of the internet, has taken certain chivalrous and important codes of conduct away from us.  It’s eliminated the practicality of standing beside what you write, what you say, what you do, as part of being an honourable person.  When I hit publish, I recognize that every word I write is going to be read and scrutinized by people all over the world (at least potentially, but not likely).  But even more importantly, the reason I’m writing is because a) it gives me a sense of discipline like journaling, like writing in my leather bound journal with pencil and paper and b) it allows me to share aspects of my life with others, things that I’m excited about (the garden, the transformation the garden and the new house is having not only on my life, but my family’s life, and the garden itself).  I’m writing this for me, but I’m doing so fully cognisant that its out there, that it’s public.

Twenty years ago, all I’d be doing would be writing in the journal and considering publishing it.  But is there an ethic involved in online publishing  that is similar, is necessary, to any writing?  Is there a line that we approach, or even cross, by writing in an anonymous style that is hurtful, or potentially harmful?

I think as authors, be it online or offline, we need to choose our words carefully and not be fearful of standing behind them, be they in print or in pixel.  We as authors must convey to our readers and potential readers the ideas we want to communicate and trust that those words are significant and meaningful.  If we have to hide behind a name, if we have to write in cognito, what are those reasons?  Steven King had legitimate reasons, he wanted to see if people were simply buying his books because he wrote them.  J. K. Rowling had similar reasons.  I myself toyed around with the idea of a nom de plum when I first started writing poetry back in my twenties, but I did so because I wanted to bring honour to my maternal grandfather (whom I have never met), and I wanted to tie the relationship of my family closer to what I was writing.

Even Armistead Maupin, who wrote the famous “Tales of the City” and no doubt included aspects of his own life and interactions with people in his life, knew that what he was writing had meaning.  The words had weight.  He stood behind them.

So I’m left with only one thing, having written and said all this.  Is there anything in what this individual has requested that is unreasonable?  No. Is there anything unscrupulous about how this individual is writing?  Absolutely.  But it’s not my blog, not my words, not my potential consequences.

The editing I have done in the previous post is the last time I will ever change what I have written because someone is afraid their words will catch up to them.  The only advice I can offer, and I suggest it’s not going to be willingly heard (again, not my issue) is that if one is afraid that one’s words will somehow come to haunt them, why then, Felicia, are you writing them to begin with?

Bianca Del Rio, my hero.  She’s not only beautiful, but she has the balls to be a c*nt and own it.  Call me.  Drinks are on me.

To this individual?  Be like Bianca.  Have courage to stand behind you words, not hide behind them.

Back to the garden…if you’re going to plant something like an opium poppy or marijuana, don’t be screaming at the potential of people finding out you have illegal plants in your ground.  Or, I’m just a crazy janitor trying to impersonate a hermit who gardens.

Just when you think you’ve got it bad.

So I spent the bulk of yesterday cleaning, repotting the perennials into cocoa fiber pots (which is going to make transplanting them into the new garden much easier as they’ll just compost themselves into the soil), and getting ready for a date…who texted me an hour before hand to tell me he had to leave town for work, and an hour after that to tell me (actually his friend Mal, whomever Mal is) that it’s great to be sitting with his feet up and beer in hand (incidentally, when did people loose the courage to say that they aren’t interested?) followed by “whoops, sent that to the wrong person” (right).

There are days when I write this blog that I wish I could be as a work of fiction, rather than one of reality.   Unfortunately, I went for brutal reality, seeds, stand ups, and all.

Today I get a letter from Pelican Narrows.  My friend Michael lives and works up there in retail, which up north means the Hudson Bay Company.  Now I will grant you that after spending last night hiding in my bed playing candy crush, getting this letter puts things into perspective quite a bit.  Michael hermits as well, but more because of his remote location than anything else.  He is the gay community, the only gay in the village.  And he may correct me on that one as well!  He has the same issues I have with lgbt community, and dating, with one difference.  I’m surrounded by them.   He isn’t.  I’m liking the actual letter writing we’re doing, and the letter I got really put my feet back on the ground again where they need to be.  He’s having the same problems I am.  That’s something at least.

I’m not sure who’s luckier!

Yesterday the first robins flew in.  I heard them before I saw them, and then the pelicans started circling around the east part of Wascana Lake.  It’s only going to be a matter of time now before I hear cranes returning on their journey north.  The snow geese flew over yesterday.  That was pretty amazing to be out at night, stars glowing somewhat glistening off-centerer by the mist in the air and then suddenly a low-flying flock of snow-white geese with that characteristic call, not unlike a Canadian goose but not as long, more “victorian granny” in nature (and yes, that’s a strange description I know but if you’ve heard snow geese you’ll understand).

Right now is the worst time for gardeners because the soil up top is still saturated, and the soil underneath (gumbo) is still frozen solid.  You get the illusion that you’ll be able to plant by putting in the shovel only to realize that once you hit that clay, it’s over.  Raised beds methinks.  If I’m going to cottage garden it’s going to take some patience and resilience.

Neighbour behind us moved out, which in itself isn’t interesting.  What is interesting, however, is that the managers of the complex offered to significantly decrease his rent for him to stay.  Things are strange around here.  They fight to keep people while increasing the rents beyond what’s affordable, and yet three guys stand by a sump pump watching it slowly drain a puddle.  And we’re paying their wages.  Nothing says government like Boardwalk Rental Communities.  I swear they could’ve been a caricature for city employees.

I did want to talk more about the first day of digging, a few weeks ago.  Dave Ledeaux in his podcast here often talks about Canadian gardeners on the first warm day heading out at ridiculously early times to start digging.  This year I got to prove that.

What I found somewhat strange was that as I dug in the garden to try and get a hole big enough to put my gas plant in, I found that I was digging up what looked like onions, then my brain went to how they could be crocuses or daffodils.  I didn’t know what they were because I hadn’t been there when they went in.  I suddenly found myself overcome with the realization that I was in someone else’s yard.  This wasn’t my garden!  I mean, it will be my garden but it didn’t feel like it. It was like Baba’s yard was vandalized, and I was the vandal! I took a look around and realized that the flower beds I had planned to put in were already there, under the snow, and there were/are perennials there.  The old tire I thought was a flower bed is actually a border with a cedar and perennials in it.  It’s begging to become a Marian shrine, and I can’t wait to head out into the valley once the pussy willows appear to cut the wood to make the nook where the statue will go, where the clematis will climb.  The lilacs will definitely need  cutting but more than that, there will have to be some kind of fencing so that Sookie won’t get out into the yard on the south side.  There are projects now that are coming into volition, the guy who digs around the house to put in new weeping tile will dig out a pond, stones will have to be laid, liners looked into, maybe concrete, but it’s taking shape.  It’s less formal now and more cottage, and I’m liking that because it truly will honour the years that Baba put into the yard while making it my garden.

Just when you think it’s bad…like my friend Steven in Toronto said to me last night while cheering me up, “It’s amazing where life takes you.”

I was going to post on the first day of spring but I couldn’t get into the mood to write long enough.  It’s…snowing again. I grant you, the snow here isn’t as bad as it is in Nova Scotia right now, but I empathize  We had snow that bad a couple of years ago.  My dad actually had a very interesting point!  Why aren’t they shovelling it into the ocean?  Too much environmental degradation?  Ah heck, I don’t know.

Anyway!  A hermit’s life is always interesting.  On the heels of a bad encounter in Saskatoon with a gentleman whom needs all the prayers and thoughts of good things we can muster, I had a call very early Friday morning from another friend up in Saskatoon.  Now I’m a night owl, so I thought it was kind of funny that I should find myself at 1:00 pm looking at my phone and asking myself, why in the name of all things green would she call me at that ungodly hour?

I put my phone away, walked the dog, and went on with my day:  no message, must not be important.

Saturday I sent a text with the new running gag, you’ve stolen my phone.  Long story.  Rather not get too deeply into it.  The conversation only lasted for a few lines, but in those lines I realized that where I was looking for an ear and to maybe grieve a bit, it simply wasn’t there.  I got shut down fast, and my compost side went into that deep, dark, decomposing murkiness that does nothing but heat up, rot things, and stink.

So after I spent the bulk of the night sulking I realized I’d probably be better to bend like these damn seedlings rather than uproot anything.  I turn the tray these tomatoes are in and within 40 minutes they’ve already begun to lean the opposite direction to get better light.  In them I see potential for sauces, sandwiches, warm fruit off the vine, canned vegetables, you name it.  But not every seed germinated.  There are some that have still got the husks of the seeds on the leaves, and they’re fighting to get them off, the leaves opening slowly like a little ring holding the crown of a husk on them.

Number one rule of a hermit, is be the hermit.  That means, internally work through your stuff but don’t become the stuff.  Hard thing to do.  It means, let things compost but be prepared to turn the compost.  So she wasn’t able to give me what I needed.  Maybe she’s not in the space where she can, or wants to.  That’s not necessarily her fault.

What I find somewhat stunning if not crazy is the fact that over the last week, 3 guys have popped into my life, all three basically unavailable for three different reasons, and I simply walk the dog at night, look up into the sky, and wonder why this Creator has such a strange way of making a joke.  Last night, guy #3 bailed on a date we’d made.  I don’t blame him.  These days it’s not easy to like someone and not get frightened.  Especially given my own circumstances in the last month.

Loneliness is not a curse, it’s a state of being that never disappears, but it does dissipate given the ways we occupy our time.  Being a hermit is the way of learning to master that skill, and to translate that mastery into everything that we do.

Would it please melt already.

Two years ago I visited a garden centre near where I live which among the other better plants sold a variety of plants which had/have no business being here on the prairies.  I bought from Gwen a couple of plants I still have, an olive which is currently in the fight for spring sunshine, and a bougainvillea.  The bougie, as I’ve come to call it, is one of the old friends that has come with me the last couple of years and I suspect with the right care and attention will be someone I lovingly grow old with.  I’m hoping the east window in the new house will be enough for her.

During a really difficult depression, one that just about stopped me from participating in the world beyond what I absolutely had to, the branches went absolutely bare.  Every single leaf disappeared and for six months they covered themselves in flowers, multitudes of flowers.  At one point it was a three foot tall pillar of bright pink.  Oddly enough, when I came out of the depression the flowers ceased and it started growing leaves.  The branches are wild, angular, and in all sorts of brambly directions but I didn’t mind.  I kind of liked the green and the wildness of it all.

But today was the day that I realized the reason the leaves kept turning yellow was because it needed to be repotted, and if I wanted it to bloom again I was going to have to take drastic action and prune the snot out of it.  Hard.  So I put some newspaper down on the coffee table, began pruning away the dead branches and dry wood, being careful to leave some of the established growth.  Once I repotted it, I took some of the stronger branches I had cut of and put them into the pot to try and root some cuttings.

While I was pruning, one of the thorns (yes, they do have thorns.  Everywhere a bloom comes out a thorn grows…ironic that!), pierced my thumb pretty deep.  Revenge, I suppose, for the drastic pruning I had to do.

Considering the nature and life of a hermit, there is an important lesson that has to be learned, both by pruning and repotting, but also by the piercing of the thorn into my thumb.  The orders of monastics who live hermit lifestyles come out of the desert frequently to associate with their brothers, usually during mass, but also to share a communal meal and to enjoy the company of other human beings.  The thinking behind this is that complete and total solitude can in fact create a distance, a gap, between the seeking soul and the Divine rather than a closeness, or a connection.  Only in communing with others are we able to return into our solitude and go deeper towards that connection between God and our hearts.  Pruning is like this, in a way.  Each branch can in fact deliver new growth and provide life to the plant; but if the branches are not pruned on occasion, with compassion and well intended common sense, the plant will not flower.  It will in fact wither, become weaker, and eventually die if it is not cared for.  Sometimes along the way, we encounter a thorn that may pierce.  Pain is not a reason to escape the world, it is a consequence of engaging it.

Every seed that is put into the soil is a risk.  The risk is that it may not germinate, or  that it will be weak.  There are things we as gardeners can do to minimize that risk and maximize the potential, but in the end we are only allowed what is in our control:  we can increase or decrease the light, we can increase or decrease the nutrients, we can increase or decrease the humidity.  Or we can simply not engage the plant and refuse the seed in the ground.

Grow hard or go home.  Plant vigorously, prune when needed, weed when required.  And take the time to enjoy the fruits with some wine and some friends.  The garden, even if a potted plant, is a place of retreat and solitude but unless it is shared with others, the work is meaningless.

Wonder of wonders.  If anyone isn’t familiar with the weather in Saskatchewan, we have two seasons. Winter, and everything else.  And as the snow melts, we’re able to see some of our plants peek out, the ground melts, and leaves begin to poke out and give us hope that indeed, spring is on it’s way.

Last night while I was laying in bed contemplating the move to the new house, I realized that I really like my room!  I like the fact that it faces south, that sunlight streams in here and makes the mountain of green greener, that I wake up with sun kissing my legs, that the crystal in the window perpetually throws rainbows over my walls.  I like that the lake, the park, is right behind my house.  I love the fact that in the summer I can open my window and get a cool breeze off the lake!  In short, there are a lot of things about where I live that I love!  Why, I asked myself, do I want to move from where I live to a tiny house (YAY) with a huge yard (YAY!) in a neighbourhood that’s as far from the park as can be?

Then I stepped out my door and realized, after walking around to survey the gardens, that the newspaper has not yet been cleared off the lawns.  And one of my neighbours, actually quite a few of my neighbours, who have ‘assisted living’ dogs (translate that to mean the people in the rental office are about as smart as some of these dogs to realize that a german shepherd is not on the allowed list, but a rented unit in a community of about 25% vacancy needs every body with money it can get) have allowed their lovely animals to run amok and ‘sow seeds of happy buttons’ all over the grass.  Land mines.  Lovely.  I wonder if they’d fit into the letter box people use to drop their rent cheques off…….ooops, careful.  Don’t talk about shooting a horse in public!

Next, at 1:45 pm after catching the whisps of dope from next door (yes, we can smell cheap weed for blocks, even though you may deny it!), I find a lovely surprise has jumped out of the grass and began to grow on my lawn!  The Bohemian Beer Can Plant.  This lovely little gem was deposited by my neighbour during the fall.  When planted, usually by trash (not exclusively white anymore people!  We’re a multicultural society, trash can be any race or gender now!  HYBRIDS!), expectant of a tree growing, sprouting, and spewing bohemian beer.  I grant you, the amount of fertilizer left by the dogs would be consistent of the flavour of this particular brand of beer…. I think, as a rule, people generally try to plant these seeds after they’ve imbibed too much of the cheap dope.  And judging by the smell, they smoke a lot of it.

It’s time to get out.  If I needed a reminder about why I can’t stay here anymore, the gopher who woke up too early and died, curled in a little ball next to the foundation of the house, trying to find warmth, was the last straw.

Then…this:

Monday, March 9, 2015.  The hollyhocks are growing.  Growing.  They’re actually further along than my seedlings which makes me shout for joy!

Life is like weeding I suppose.  You survey what is around you, assess the growth with the die-back, decide what to mulch, and prepare.  I’m not as a rule a vindictive person.  But as I watch the staff move the piles of snow from one location to the other, stacking it at least 20 feet high, then moving it back the next week to where it was before (this is our rental increases hard at work) I can’t help but think about all the catnip seeds I’ve spread through out the lawns here, and how, especially with regular mowing, there should be tens, maybe hundreds, of cats both domesticated and feral, rolling around in the grass, pooping and peeing in the grass, howling at night in the grass.

Ok ok, it’s not very hermit like.  And karma is a pain.

Every time I see catnip, or a beer can, I’m reminded that there is always something better around the corner…or under the snow.