High Summer. The earth is poised for a rainshower that can’t make up its mind. Thunder threatens in the distance as gnats swarm around me. I’m surveying what I call my garden, feeding my anemic rosebushes, remembering the month of May when everything was so under my control, so manageable. The forest around our house takes on a life of its own every summer. I prune and pluck, attempting to edge it all with a semblance of order. But it always wins by this time of the year. I just give in, just as I give in to the gnats circling my head, and do the best I can to encourage what still looks decent. For the thousandth time I wish that I would take a less random, more precise approach to gardening . But I do love the wildness, the unexpected beauty of an unplanted weed. Who decided which plant was a weed anyway?
It’s OK. It’s New Hampshire vegetation in freefall. Kind of like life. I wake up laboring under the illusion of control, only to have reality intrude. But this is instructive. I live in the forest, and I love it. I live in the world, and that means rolling with the unexpected, grabbing what comes along, relishing the surprises of the day. Why not love that too? Call me Gumby if you will. The key is flexibility. It’s easier that way, and more fun too.
