It’s blueberry day! I just discovered it. You are the only person I’ve told. I couldn’t keep it in. Secrets are not my forte. The birds told me. Secrets are not their forte either.
I’ve been sitting in front of my computer designing gardens for other people and dreaming about playing in my own. Just thirty minutes. I planted a cucumber, discovered labels missing from things that I potted up a month ago, and decided to plant them anyway because the garden is my special place where chaos is the only god. I was bit by an ant, cursed myself for one more thing I have yet to manage, and then the birds told me to turn around.
There, not just one blueberry sat ripe, a bunch, a handful. waiting for me. I ate them, saved a few on the bush for Rocky to pick when she arrives home, worked a little more, and wrote something in my head about sharing. about strawberries. about my grandmother laughing at my eye-watering desire for access. Something about the bunny I saw as I watered the veggies, about how glad I am that my cat is inside now, even though it’s not his preference. Something else.
about the strawberries and desire and access. In the last calendar year, I have planted (with help) 150 strawberry plants. Is this accessive? yes. Did I need to do this? more than anything.
I tell my clients to decide before they plant fruit in their front year, how much they want to share, not if they want to share. It’s not optional.
There’s something in there about you and your Self. It’s not a fully formed thought, but maybe you know what it is and I'm just typing.
the 150 strawberries are not for jam, for pies or to sell. They’re to sit on the ground to eat, to bring a bowl to a friend, to share with the bunny and the birds and the slugs and not to feel an ounce of resentment. I want to plant so many strawberries that it is not an option to avoid sharing.
The blueberries are like that. The property is going to overflow and I am going to call you and beg you to take them.
I think love is like that too.