cook's diary

carrots:  some days are rather crunchy.  you can sink your teeth into them.

eggs:  some days i feel fragile.

lemon:  some days just plain suck.

garlic:  some days stink but are good for you.

apple:  some days are sweet and just plain fine.

peapods:  some days are fresh starts, full of possibility

tea bag:  things are brewing

spring equinox 2000

as the day and night balance in anticipation of beginnings and growth to come, i plant new seeds in the garden of my life.

the soil in my garden hasn't been this innocent since i was a kid. i've tilled the mud with my tears, and plowed through it with my rage. i've dug deep holes, buried myself, crawled out, and filled them up again. and then i kneaded the soil back into itself again and again.

the earth is me. is not me. is OF me. makes me. i'm in the garden of my life today, and i'm planting seeds.

i've been tending this garden for so, so long. some years have yeilded colorful, vibrant bounty. other years became infested or died parched.

i smell the earth as i sift it through my fingers. this year it is ripe. it's forgiving me (finally). it's ready to take my seeds as humbly as i plant them. the earth and i both tremble. the bed i'm making is important. i'm ready to do it right this time.

i'm in the garden of my life, and i'm ready to plant this seed -- the one i'm holding in my hand right now. it's sort of nobby and brown. people tell me what it might look like when it grows, but i don't know. i sort of like the feel of this seed in my hand as it is. maybe i'd like to keep it in my pocket.

but i won't keep holding it here in my hand. the garden calls for it.

with one sharp move of the spade, i make a place for this seed. the crunching of dirt against the knowing intention of my tool causes me to catch my breath. i pack down some soil to comfort the seed.

okay. it's planted.

will it blossom? will it be strong? i've done my very best with the soil and in taming the gardener herself, but i don't know. i hope. and some happy tears water the seed.























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© 1994, 1995, 1996, 1997, 1998, 1999, 2000 Cathy Young