For two days now we’ve had 90+ temperatures and humidity you could wade through, but last night the heat broke with a thunderous storm. I sat outside with a glass of wine and watched the clouds boil in over my neighbors’ rooftops until the plummeting rain drove me inside.
This morning, early, I’ve been out in the cool clean air tending my garden in my small city yard. My hands smell like parsley, sage, and rosemary (the thyme didn’t need any work today).
I love to garden, but it’s not always easy. Sometimes seeds don’t sprout. Sometimes cute little bunnies get to my plants before I do. Despite everything I try, every year wasps lay their eggs in my squash stems, where they hatch into squash borers and eat their way out. Rain, no rain, heat, hail all happen whether I want them to or not.
Gardening (and writing) always reminds me that results are uncertain and beyond my control. But I love the acts themselves. Are they fun? Maybe. Does doing them make me happy?