Tiny Stories, Tiny Tales

Potting up and other stories

The book said "bleach your possibly disease ridden pots." So I bleached my possibly disease ridden pots. The book said, "put down pebbles in the bottoms of your pots." So, I put down pebbles in the bottom of my pots. Then the book said, "mix sand with your potting soil." and that's where I stopped. There's always a limit to everything. A limit to getting things done, a limit to details, there's just a limit. Mixing sand with potting soil was my limit. Bleaching the pots and actually having pebbles from a past project was stellar in my book. The sand would be for a time when I had sand around.

I'm not a detail sort of girl so I was pretty damn proud over my neat rows of potted bulbs. They're for later this next year, about January and Februrary when many of us go stark raving mad for color, please God, color. Some of us around then need something different from glaring white or the washed out hues of brown and yellow. These little pots hold gems of color and I trust they will not let me down. I'm going to do it right this year and monitor them like people with hard hats monitor nuclear plants. That's right. That's monitoring.

Last winter was a financial failure. I got my pots, my soil, my bulbs and with very limited information, I planted and stored the bulbs away. I watered faithfully but come around January, something was horribly wrong. Nothing grew, nothing came out of the soil. I was in a funk with the failure of it but steeled myself. Next year, I vowed, next year, I would arm myself with intel and get these little things to bloom.

And yes, oh yes, we have the intel. I picked up a discounted book on bulb forcing from Smith and Hawken in the late Spring when the sting of forced bulb failure was low. I read the book and realized all the terrible mistakes I had made. They were terrible. And then I put the book away and went through the summer, languishing in the heat, picking up on the cooler days. Just having your basic summer.

Today, I followed the book- almost absolutely. My bulbs and their pots are tucked into the garage. I have written down dates in my date book (take out pots to be warmed in cool room, etc, etc). I have figured out how to deal with the garage freezing (put the pots in old stryofoam coolers! Go figure!). I have labeled them. They are a small army but they will succeed.

Now sitting here, reading a bit more on forcing, having laid out the dates of when to do this and that, I settle into the couch and think, wow, the taste of doing something well tastes very good indeed. This rarely happens because I tend to jump steps in my haste or do something by myself without stopping to get info. This time I didn't. And it's all over. They're all settling in, getting ready to sprout their roots. And thinking about this leaves a good taste in the mouth. I am pleased with my work. And that's no small thing for a hasty perfectionist to say.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

The Taste of Tea

A favorite film of mine, The Taste of Tea, centers on an eccentric family living in the Japanese countryside. They spend a great deal of time sitting outside, sipping tea and staring into space. They sit as a family, alone, or in a small group and no one talks. They just stare out into the deep green that is the summer. And then they get up and go on walks or go off to work.

The first time I watched The Taste of Tea, I was shaken and delighted that the film gave space and respect to one of my favorite pastimes: sipping tea and staring into space.

When spring grew warm enough, I was inspired by the film to sit outside and stare into my backyard in the early morning. The Taste of Tea had given me a sort of permission to leave stress behind and take this time for one of my deepest desires: to enjoy and contemplate nature while sipping tea.

I named my new practice “Sipping Tea and Watching the Grass Grow.” I felt ridiculous whenever I mentioned it to anyone but that hardly mattered. I was doing what I loved so much, watching plants grow, watching the birds and small animals moving through it all, and sky glowing blue and serene over us all.

 

Grass grows slowly, imperceptibly but after each rain, it leaps up by inches. The violets came in May and they lasted for weeks. After that the dandelions bloomed and I lost a little bit of my heart to them. The wind picked up their seeds and sent the white fluffs floating into the air in sweet, downy clouds. After that, small wild strawberries, glowing like fierce red gems, appeared in the lawn. Now at the end of June, a luxurious, emerald green covers nearly everything. It reaches up from the ground, covering fences and stones or it high overhead, green leaves moving in tall, imperceptible breezes.

 

The heat has settled in so now even in the mornings, I pour sweat while drinking my tea. On some mornings the birds are noisy and busy and on other days they are not. Sometimes a great big bumblebee comes tumbling along, droning in that low, hazy buzz as it investigates every surface and flower. And then sometimes it does not come. Some days the clouds are like fluffs of cotton, other days there isn’t a cloud in sight. Each day brings a new configuration, nature is never still. I watch it all and at other times, I close my eyes and listen to my breathing. I’m not alone, never alone, a part of a whole.

A Tale of Two Worlds

I walk past a window on my way to get a glass of water and note the snow falling outside.  As I fill my glass at the sink, my thoughts have already turned back to my work on the computer. I’m wrestling with the household budget, when I’ll fit some reading in, how to get on with my writing work, when I’ll exercise, when I’ll catch up with email correspondence and the list goes on and on.

Anytime I stop my work and look up, past the chatter in my mind, the snow catches me off guard as if it’s the first time I’m seeing it. I debate whether I can put off the grocery store to avoid driving in the snow.

This is the world of the everyday. It’s full of a thousand petty cares, some essential to living, others not as much but all in a lump group, tugging us along.

But there are times my mind needs something more refreshing, and it’s time to take a break. And that’s where music comes in—as powerful as Circe creating a circle of magic with her staff. I pick out music without words (or words I don’t understand). Today is Rimsky-Korsakov, tomorrow might be the film Phantom Thread’s soundtrack, or a piece of jazz played by Lucky Thompson.

As Rimsky-Korsakov’s The Snow Maiden starts, the circle opens. I come out of the everyday world and enter somewhere extraordinary, where beauty converges with life and cares and worries exit for a time. And all it takes is a little music, a little snow, and entering the moment that is now.

I watch the snow falling, noting the wind direction as the snow blows southeast and then drops and then exhales again southwards. I note the density of the snow, how it’s light and sparkling and then downy, heavy, and wet.  My thoughts finally still and I turn off the music. A heavy relief passes over my body and mind and I am still, watching the beauty of the world.