03/30/2026
Maybe the tomatoes and the hollyhock and a gentle reset, a meditation in motion, an action-based calibration of the spirit. Maybe I’m overthinking things again, and a garden is just a garden. But I know this isn’t so. I know this is not true. Because gardens are rooted in resistance. They are stories of survival, sweeping landscapes of hope. They are all at once foolish and blind a million times over, and yet choatically beautiful. Gardens can be cruel or exclusionary, with walls around them or full of plants from faraway places. Meant to tell the story of victory, conquest, and colonization. But gardens are more often life-giving, feeding hungry mouths and calming swollen bellies. Or so very quiet, tended by a single person, who stands still for a moment in the chaos of life. A single person moved by the way the morning light runs along the spiderwebs, now dew-covered and glittering, on an average Tuesday morning. And so I will be quiet for a moment, and hope the gentle wind of March whispers something about color palette or structure into my dreaming mind, and what comes of that, really is anyone’s guess. And under Joan Baez’s suggestion, I’ll plan to spend 85% of my time for the next six months or so, in the dirt. And the other 10-15% doing something.
