Amy in the Garden

I doubt I have anything new, useful, or profound to offer on the subject of Time. But like every other writer, that’s not going to stop me from commenting.

I think about Time all the time. When I was younger, unmarried, and delighted with my life in New York, I was always happy in the moment (work! after work with friends! nesting in my apartment!) and still racing towards the next event. There was never enough Time for what was and what was about to be, and it was all very exciting. When my children arrived, Time became more about survival. How would I manage to move my children through the day, helping them grow and improve and find Time for myself to….forget rest, think, or bathe. How about just time to eat?

Time has brought about my evolution as a parent (from primordial down-on-the-rug mom with an infant on a bright quilt, to cro-magnon mom bent over for the toddler, to upright homo sapien mom as the child-adult packs her OWN suitcase for college. No one ever tells a new parent that part of her evolution will involve not being involved.).

Gardening has rearranged my concept of Time. I realized on this hot summer morning that my time spent gardening changes with the seasons as surely as plant activity changes. I am more in synch with Nature than I realized. Here’s how:

Winter: My gardening time is spent in an armchair, reading. I have seed catalogs for dreaming, coffee-table garden design books for inspiration, garden books for my education, and my garden journal (sharpened pencil at the ready) for planning. Time is fluid, because the armchair is always available, and the temperature inside is always constant.

Spring: Garden time is mid-day, when the sun has warmed both the air and me. I work better when I can feel my nose and fingertips. I dig in the earth with the sun on the back of my neck. As soon as I feel that first subtle shift in the air temperature and the light changing from warm yellow to cool white, I go inside. Garden Time is done for that day. I go back inside to the constant conducive temperature to pretend I am gardening. I watch my seedlings grow, and try not to interfere with those delicate unseen roots, moving through the potting mix. Apical Meristem Time – I am not invited to that activity.

Summer: There is so much to do in the garden, and yet I can no longer work in the yellow light, because now yellow = hot. That means planning my Garden Time for when the sun is up but the air is either still cool or cooling down. I plan my days so that I can be in the garden from 6 a.m. until Life calls me away (the office or the grocery store, both persistent callers), or from 4 p.m. until Life calls me away again (Family wanting my company or my Kitchen Contribution towards dinner. I am so tempted to suggest that they do without me entirely in the summer. Couldn’t they just prop up a photo of me on the dining room table while they eat? Cereal at 9 p.m. is so fine for me.).

Fall: Time = hysteria. The temperature has moderated so that there are no longer Forbidden Zones of time. The plants are producing furiously, unaware of the calendar or the clock. But I am aware. I know that the arrival of the first frost means the loss (well, except for the husband-hated kale) of harvest. Reap what was sown, and prepare for the freeze. It’s hard to know what to do first, and as in those Toddler Years, there is no Time to rest, bathe, think, or even eat. Still, it’s a nice problem to have.

It is already 8 a.m. Time to switch hats, from Writer to Gardener, while the summer air is still cool. I have new string, and the Florida Weave needs another tier. The Garden Hours beckon.

WORDS FROM OTHERS

Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in.

— Henry David Thoreau