Big Daddy

When I was a teenager, the local museum opened a new wing dedicated to modern art. I recall going with my parents to explore the modern architectural design featuring the type of art that just made my father shake his head in bewilderment as my mother proceeded to nod, ponder, and utter, “Now isn’t that interesting?”

One painting in particular struck me.  I knew Jackson Pollock, which means I knew enough to say, “Hey, that’s like Jackson Pollock!” The piece featured lots of splotches in a cacophony of dripping strings of paint.  But that’s not what struck me.  I felt sort of ho hum about the apparent flinging of loaded paint brushes (like, who hasn’t done that?), but experienced deep and honored respect for the title: The space between my head and the alarm clock.

Modern art: now I get it.

And art imitates life.  Our context may change, but the buzzing doesn’t stop.  Just the other day my family stood with reverence as we said goodbye to our beloved pigs, Piggins and Piglididee, who were crated and loaded on a farm trailer to be driven off by their new owners.  Ending our time on the farm (wanna buy a farm in central Va.?  I know of a GREAT one for sale!), we are divesting ourselves of our livestock. P&P are now ensconced lovingly in their new home befriended by goats, chickens, one of our donkeys, and more importantly, a 4 y.o. boy and a 6 y.o. girl. I will admit, the other members of my family were more mournful of this parting.  But don’t get me wrong; it’s not that I don’t dearly love the swine, the buzzing was too much of a distraction.

They even churn their own mulch.

Like the space between the artist’s head and his alarm clock, my gardening senses pulled me from the imploring porcine faces to the pen from which they had squealed. The buzz altered as my neck rotated towards the now silent earth. It worked its way into a beautiful melodious tone as my body followed suit. As I gazed with complete attention to the empty pigsty, the voices around me seemed more distant. The slow realization that P&P left behind the most glorious of garden soil pulled me into the pen. The rest of my family, as if walking to the beat of a dirge, followed the trailer as it pulled away.  I, with much fewer lamentations, galloped to the garden to hoist my shovel, bringing it straight back to my new patch of land.

Digging into the rich earth, I let out a wail that seemingly affirmed to my family that the grief of losing P&P was too much.  However, to their surprise, they came running to discover my new find of Titanoworm was vocally greeted with an overflowing and complete outpouring of joy. Like my dad, they shook their heads wondering what I’m all about.  No doubt it will take a fellow gardener to get it.

HO de phone! Big Daddy with his less hulkish comsoiliots

The simple joy of planting. Thanks P&P for the lovely soil!

Sustenance

I’m photoless on this one, so my apologies.

But, to tell the truth, it makes sense to not show you what I’m talking about because what I want to discuss is something we don’t really ever see directly.

In a word, I want to talk about soil. In a generality, I want to talk about nourishment.

Good soil is the foundation of a thriving garden, but building soil (I actually like to refer to this as ‘growing’ soil) takes time.  My current garden started out as overturned sod. A lightish orange color told me that I’d best haul in plenty of organic material.  Tenacious grass roots made gardening feel shallow both figuratively and literally.

That year, the plants themselves served a sacrificial rite as they sent out their roots.  This subterranean network, fragile at first, set in motion the framework needed for plots to come.  Building up, while digging down, aeration and transformation happens through channels never seen.  Over time, this continued interaction between plants, organisms, and the good earth creates a richer environment where nutrients are absorbed into the food to be eaten.  Magic happens.

Recently I’ve discovered this same magic above ground, but still coming from someplace invisible. A strange turn of events and an alarming diagnosis put my son in the hospital for a couple weeks. Initially, a few friends sent meals and stopped by to visit, as is customary in this sort of situation. Within days though, as the situation became more serious, a network emerged. A woman who came with her daughter to see us handed me a lasagna, hugged me, and then introduced herself. I liked that sequence: food, love, and then the formalities.  People around us set up systems where food and visitors came on a regular basis.  I don’t know who masterminded it all, but sitting down each night to fresh healthy food told me the god or goddess of community was watching over us. 

And the timing fit beautifully. My garden has been neglected in all of this, but the abundance of strawberries I missed found their way to us when word got out that my boy loves them. Garden greens appeared nightly when others learned my oldest starts each dinner with a big salad. Fresh from the garden, just not my garden, showed me how far this network reaches.  Time, interaction, kindness, and support creates nourishment for body and soul.  On the next go around I’ll be active in the network, perpetuating this invisible web not as a recipient, but as one who joins in to sustain the unseen foundation we thrive upon.