Heat and near drought rule this summer. We haul hoses around, time watering periods for garden, kitchen garden, flower beds, elderberry patches, and row of chokecherries and interlopers—the young boleana tree, Nanking cherries, and honey berries. A pop-up apple start. The yard itself is given short shrift, though I loathe to see it straw-like already, only mid-summer. I accidentally/foolishly left the water on an apple tree overnight last week. The downhill ash and poplar trees benefitted from my lapse. Naturally we feared for our well—how adequate is the aquifer beneath us, volume-wise? I don’t want to find out the hard way.
This being our routine—Jeff tending the gardens while I water my trees (mine to water) in the early mornings, pairing a contemplative wander about the orchard, seeking the shade of our gnarly apples. Unfortunately, they will bear no fruit this year, due to blossoming too early in the spring and being blasted by recurring snow storms in late April, a full six weeks early. Temperatures rose markedly in March and sap began to rise. First time this has happened in our forty-year memory of living here. May it not be a trend.
The grape vines are thriving however, and are loaded with clusters. Nature gives; nature takes away.
I am working on the art of living more philosophically, the French “c’est la vie,” or by the Italians’ “l’arte di arangiarsi,”—or the art of getting along, as it is commonly translated. A feisty Italian guide explained it once as having to do with adapting ourselves to any given situation. I paraphrase. “Arranging ourselves” works, if simplistically. What is right in front of my face to attend to? Watering. Staying reasonably informed of the behavior of our country’s present régime and taking action where I can. Attending to relationships. Offering hospitality when possible. Minding boundaries. Walking. More walking. Lifting weights against the osteoporosis. The writing. Practicing kindness.
Watering becomes a metaphor for living. We do what needs to be done and care for our friends— the trees—and the piece of the planet we live on. I am emerging (think moth from cocoon) from an intense period of working on the last book in my Riven Country series, THE EARTH IS HER OWN, and do what I can to promote it—though I am woefully not suited to the sort of diligence that proper marketing entails. “The bare minimum” is barely covered. This watering of my own “planted seed”comes second to our orchard’s needs. C’est la vie.
A grazing horse came upon a sparrow lying in the grass, her tiny legs raised to the sky, her eyes tightly shut.
“What are you doing, Miss Sparrow? Are you all right?”
“Why yes, thank you. I’m holding up the sky, Mr. Horse.”
The horse chuckled. “You’re mighty small for such a task.”
“Yes. Yes, I am, but one does what one can.”
Braeburn Croft 