growing in the garden

I am writing this to the sound of rain on the tin roof, and thinking of the seeds in the garden, the morels in the forest all waking up and doing their wondrous thing out there in the wet dirt. There is still more to plant, and endless lists of things to accomplish out there, but I am feeling thankful for what has been done (with so much help from Nana and Grandpa,) and pretty relaxed about what doesn't get done.

These are the years, I figure, where we toss in some seeds and don't stress too much about the weeds or the overgrown flower beds. Our other land mates are meticulous gardeners, and we call ours "the slum" for all its plant pots and toys and chickweed. But somehow, we are still eating last years potatoes and garlic and spinach and rhubarb and beets. Our food grows despite our neglect, and seems not to care about the long lists of things that never get done.

I like to think the plants are happy to grow here in our good dirt, knowing how we enjoy being out there with them. I imagine them soaking in the rain from the mountains, our good thoughts as we all dig and work in the spring sun, the coos of the happy baby as he pulls himself up for the first time on a raised bed, the songs of our three year old who spends long hours playing and singing in their midst.

This here is a good place to grow.