Yesterday morning was an idyllic spring day, softly sunny, softly breezy, softly warm, softly green. Every bone in my body wanted to be out in my little city garden, sitting there with a cup of tea, or puttering amid the perennials. But I needed to fill customer orders in the cookery. A lot of orders. The little garden is right outside the cookery. The harder I tried to fill the orders the more my body hurt and my mind wandered.
At 10:30 a.m. I gave in. Found my big gardening hat, the gloves, the trowel, and the collapsing basket used for debris. The fence row needed cleaning up, and in one hour I got it done, and the debris dumped at the curb for the city to pick up the next day (they take it to their big composting lot). It wasn’t sitting and sipping tea, it was gentle, steady work, natural movement, and did a great job of easing the aches and pains from standing on a concrete floor and stooping over food prep tables and dishwashing sinks. Most of all it made my brain and insides happy. and I was still able to fill the customer orders.
For many years I was a professional landscape designer, and I still have a large stack of designs, blueprints, and illustrations from those days. Then my health took a turn and I couldn’t handle the working conditions, the sun, the temperature variations, the physicality. Once retired, I started to garden for myself, and developed a pleasing relationship with the genius loci. but then that, too, had to be left behind. I’ve just a patch of garden now, and neither the physical ability nor the funds to do much with it. But in some ways it is more crucial to my existence than ever.
Check out my other blog: Minimalist Cooking