It is really really hard not to become soppy and cliche about growing things in a garden. One would think, or at least I always did, that putting your fingers in the dirt and mucking around with cheap packets of seeds and flinging slugs over the fence to the poor neighbor (whom, of course, I love as Christ has commanded me) would be a task sent to ground me in terminal Reality.
And yet, morning after morning the nearly same euphoria of having a new baby is constantly attacking me as I Inspect My Garden. I am daily grossed out by my own nostaligic love for the various badly arranged plants in my back yard and bit of community garden.
I know you must all be horrified to hear that on occassion I am overcome by delight for my own children, and now also my own garden. Soon you will find me canning and driveling. And before that, swooning over my new fence.
I’m so sorry, and yet, I think, not really.
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