05/27/2026
5/27/2026
Now if you'll forgive me I have words to write, they are always lurking, even if though I spend more time with mud than ink these days, I am at root a creature of words. I once strove to make my words live in poetry, when I was younger and the shadow of that remains. Anyway I live an inspired life of paradoxes, I contradict myself as Whitman did, and welcome the fact I contain multitudes, find infinite wisdom in the smallest leaf... and yet same as Jon Snow I still no nothing.
But will tell you there is still wildness here,
In my humble nursery, the gardens and interactions bargain between me and the soil and all the elements. The sweetness of berries, summers essences distilled in the songs with wings.
I tell you it's hard.
That I give up and despair
Doubt all of it.
Curse my plants and my inability,
To keep it all alive, make it thrive,
To find homes for all the green children I have so thoughtlessly brought into world.
The truth is I am always rotting,
As much as i am rooting.
I am a broken thing, rebroken frequently.
That is the essential race when rooting cuttings,
Rooting and rotting, I honestly don't know why it works when it does, sure I try to get better at it and repeat what seemed to work before for myself and others. Rooting and rotting that's life.
I try to anchor myself in the will of life, the force that drives the green fuse of a flower stem, raising my son, loving my family, and finding meaning in all the parts of my journey. Some of you know and cultivate similar dreams. Do any of ever wonder if your nervous system hasn't been taken over by the drive of another species? Like the fungus that takes over an ant and enslaves its nervous system to propagate that more of the same fungi... sometimes it feels like that a little. These last years I've given my life to plants of all types and made it my mission to make more of them. I regret nothing, only that I didn't start sooner.
Yet it's killing and culling too, that grand satisfaction of tugging the rhysome of some stubborn grass that was choking something I loved. I have murdered so much, with a hoe and these hands. There will always be a part of me that marks this hubris with guilt being unworthy of judgment. Still bittersweet roots orange red call me, garlic mustards white flowers make my hands immediately become murderous.
Surely you know the zen joy of timing a transplant perfectly, when the seedling comes out just so, filled out but not root bound, hungry for new soil and a bigger place to grow. Space and time my needy children flood my driveway and mind. So I wake and stick more cuttings in the wee hours and lie awake well past midnight giddy for that which consumes and inspires me in the springtime.
I need to share more of this strange life I've created for myself, my mind chatters endlessly though the words often drift away through the sweat and fury of my days. It will always be circles, ripples and spirals, I hope you don't mind me tossing pebbles in the pond.
Anyway thanks for reading, thanks for being, I am grateful that you are here, keep growing, I'm rooting for you all.🍎🐺
