Nadine Feldman, Author

celebrating strong female characters and whatever else strikes my fancy

spring

It’s a Jungle Out There

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A sleek little ground cover made a soft carpet between other plants. Another plant looked like carrot tops, with delicate filigree leaves. “Those are weeds,” my landscaper told me one day as we walked through the garden. I hadn’t done the planting, and I’m still learning my Pacific Northwest plants, so I had no idea.

Because I know a little something (emphasis on “little”) about herbs, my first question was, “Can we eat it?” After all, Emerson once said, “What is a weed? A plant whose virtues have not yet been discovered.” Growing up, dandelions were considered undesirable, but many herbalists list dandelions as their favorite for their medicinal properties. So, any green growing thing fascinates me, and I don’t want to pull it out until I’m sure it serves no purpose.

It didn’t help that our neighbor had sued the City over work we had done in the yard (long story). It didn’t exactly make me want to run out back to weed the garden. By the time I knew I had to get my work done regardless of the parade of people scrutinizing and photographing my yard, Spring had arrived, and the weeds had grown like…well, weeds.

“But they’re so pretty!” I said, to which my landscaper responded with a laugh. Well, yes, of course they are. They are survivors. They can grow in lovely round mounds, just like my lavender. They can hide under plants that are wanted and loved. If the plant is prickly, they snuggle in really close.

Turns out, though, that they don’t know when to quit. That cute little ground cover? Before I knew it, the plants had grown a foot high and were threatening to take over the garden, choking everything else out. That pretty plant with the leaves that looked like carrot tops, that I wondered if it was edible? Well, it fit the description of poison hemlock. In fact, if that’s the case, it’s a darn good thing I was wearing gloves when I pulled it up.

You would think that I would have learned my lesson when I first started gardening three years ago, and cabbage worms destroyed my broccoli. I couldn’t kill them because I thought they were cute. When I realized that they weren’t willing to share the broccoli, I toughened up and went on a rampage. With the weeds, too, pretty or not, they had to go. Well, most of them, anyway. There’s one that I’ve grown fond of, because it creates an uninviting property barrier that pleases me. Emerson was right. Sometimes we just have to discover the virtue to a weed.

It’s a jungle out there in the garden, where only the strong survive. Being nice doesn’t cut it. I guess it’s the same whether dealing with a worm, a weed, or an intrusive neighbor.

 

 

 

Emerging From Hibernation

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Each day gets two point something minutes longer, and already, at the beginning of February, I notice a difference. It’s my first winter in the Pacific Northwest, so I’ve had to adjust to the darkness, just as in the summer I had to adjust to the days that seem endless. “You will sleep more in the wintertime,” someone promised me, and he was right.

January, with its slow pace, allowed me to make plans for the springtime garden without feeling rushed. My first seedlings are now sprouting on windowsills, and I’m feeling less like a hibernating bear and more like a mother early in the morning, tiptoeing around while everyone’s asleep, making preparations. It’s a shift in perspective that has made the darkness bearable.

Planting vegetables from seed requires patience. Each morning and evening, I give them a spritz of water. I have some growing directly on windowsills, while others sit on a table under a grow lamp. Every few days, I plant a few more. Little by little they sprout, some more delicate than others. I have to listen to them, adjusting water and light needs based on what they show me in their growth. Late this month, I’ll be able to put some of the hardier souls in the ground. Hopefully these modest sprouts will produce a bounty of food later in the year, and I’m also learning how to preserve the harvests that I get.

As a writer, I feel as though I’m doing the same thing. I’m re-evaluating what I’m willing to do to market my work…and what I am not. I’m planting small seeds by working on a new novel. Another wonderful idea is starting to emerge that could turn into yet another book, so I’ve added it to the idea list for now. I will blog when I want to, rather than trying to blog for a certain number of days every week, and I’ll comment on others’ blogs when I read something that I find meaningful. I want to remember the joy and play of writing and not worry so much about trying to sell what I do. If I read a book that really jumps out at me, I’ll write about it…but frankly, I’ve read a lot of sucky books lately, and I no longer feel the desire to come up with a good one every single week.

It’s natural to want to share one’s work, just as it’s natural to want one’s efforts in the garden to produce food and flowers. I just don’t want to be so attached to the outcome that I forget to wander the garden to visit the plants, or forget that writing is supposed to be fun. As the sun adds a few more days to its journey across the sky, I am adding back a bit here and there, but just a little at a time. That is enough.