Tag: garden

The Weed Puller

I feel at odds in church, among men
discussing religion. God won’t come,
won’t sit with me on those hard pews
to hear the pious sentiments of the pulpit.
There is too much of man, there.

Oh, they’re important, the churches.
The keep us straight, remind us of mercy,
bind us in fellowship; separate us, too,
from the mites and the whiteflies and the grubs,
but also the melons and the rain and the sunshine.

God comes when I am in the garden, pulling
weeds from the bolting lettuce, on my knees,
fingers combing the dirt for roots,
tossing grasses, green and strong, to die
in the wheelbarrow and be carted to the compost,
soil for the next generation. Generation and

re-generation. God comes when the only voice
is in my head, when it’s just me and the weeds
and the bolting lettuce, fingers searching the soft soil
for roots, bound, sinewy, flesh.

God comes then; I needn’t search
for that which I cannot avoid, the
inescapable fingers of the weed puller.

June, 1994

I wrote this poem over twenty-five years ago, and I still feel basically the same way. I suppose one could argue that shows my lack of spiritual growth over the years.

That may be true.

But over the years as I’ve built more gardens and grown, ate, and shared more vegetables with friends, colleagues, and local charities, I’ve felt more and more connected to something larger and more lasting than the world we live in most of the time, a world dominated by the day’s current events.

In the last few years, raising animals here at the farm has deepened my sense of connection to a whole other world. Attending their birth, helping them find and attach to their dam’s teat, feeding them, raising them, watching over them as they grow, trimming their hooves, administering their shots, calling the vet when we’ve done all we can to help a sick one, sometimes burying them, and occasionally taking one or two to slaughter. All of this has helped me connect more closely to a world that utterly disregards the week’s latest social scandal or political outrage.

None of this is meant to disparage people who do have strong religious beliefs or who find solace and strength in whatever church they attend. “Good for them,” I say. If someone’s church helps them find peace and connection to like-minded souls, encourages kindness, and engenders patience, generosity, greater acceptance, and good planetary stewardship, then that person has a worthy spiritual home.

It just never worked for me. I tried for several years. I went to church, got involved with numerous activities, played gospel music, met a lot of wonderful people (and some jerks, but churches are made up of people, after all, and people can be jerks no matter where they are), and I even got baptized near the end.

It just didn’t take. As much as I enjoyed the music, liked the people, and admired much of the mission, church was never my spiritual home. Perhaps, I am the seed that lands on rocky soil and never sprouts.

Or perhaps my seed sprouted in the garden. I sometimes like to imagine myself as a strong, well-tassled stalk of corn or perhaps a long, leafy heirloom tomato, one of the indeterminate varieties. More likely, though, I am a weed growing up in the bean row, living in the cool shade, searching for sunlight, eventually to be plucked from the soil and tossed in the compost.

Their are worse fates, at least to my mind.

September, 2021

Spring and All

The storm last night passed us by. We got warnings on our various devices, and we got some rain, but the high winds and tornadoes all went south. When we went out this morning, there were no limbs or branches on the ground–or at least no more than any other morning–and the sun was coming up over the hill to light a bright blue sky.

I love the soft clarity of morning after a rain.

The yard is full of small, delicate wild flowers that we called Juicy Fruit when I was a kid. I’m pretty sure that’s not the official name.

For the past two weeks, I’ve devoted most of my outdoor time to building a fence around a raised-bed garden we have been developing over the past couple of years down by the well. There has always been a small garden down there, one that we inherited from the previous owners and that we used primarily for flowers and herbs.

But things change. When we lost some large oak trees in the front yard last year, there was suddenly a lot more sunlight available to grow herbs near the porch, which makes getting them to the kitchen a whole lot easier. At the same time, we are getting less and less sunlight around the main garden up by the barn because the surrounding trees are getting taller and taller.

As a result, we’re slowly migrating most of the garden down to the well, where the soil isn’t as good, but where there’s abundant sunlight and available water.

Pictures from last year’s Well Garden. Lots of cosmos and zinnias, along with basil, dill, oregano, rosemary, and thyme. Now we’re adding tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, basil, dill.

More garden means more fencing, hence my last couple of weeks. I was writing to a friend last night and trying to think of an analogy for what it’s like to build a fence. I have built many of them in my life–sometimes I’m good at at, sometimes not. Sometimes I’m lucky and don’t hit many rocks; sometimes it’s a rock fight all the way to the bottom. Sometimes my lines are reasonably straight; sometimes they have more of an organic look.

Anyway, if you’ve never build a fence, here’s the basic process: You start off by digging post holes twenty-four to thirty inches deep (about the length of your arm). Then there is setting the posts, pouring concrete, and making sure everything is level. I can average about one post per hour, a little faster if the soil is soft. On the other hand, I have spent as much as three or four hours on a single post, when there are major rocks or roots in the way. This fence has fifteen posts–which for me is three good days of work.

Since this is a garden fence, I stretched wire fencing on the post to slow down the rabbits. I know it won’t stop them completely, but it will frustrate them. Then I put on the railing–16 foot pieces of rough cut poplar–built gates, and trimmed all the posts.

I think building fences is a little bit like having babies. You’re all dreamy about the first one, thinking that it will make your life so much better, and not really understanding all the work and baby poop involved. It’s a wonder anyone every builds a second fence, except, like having babies, you forget what you had to go through the first time. And, like babies, eventually you start to realize that they won’t always make your life wonderful, but they are still necessary and worth the sweat, work, and worry.

This last picture was taken down by the pond. Across the street from us is a big hay field rising up over a hill. It’s one of my favorite places on the property because whenever I’m down there (usually walking Bobo) it feels like the hill is a giant wave coming at me.

Last year, the family that owns most of the property around here built a house just past the crest of the hill, and now it looks like a pirate ship on the horizon, just over the swell.