Waves. The nature of Nature often flows in waves--inward and outward, or repeating Herself. This truth washed over me this summer, not at the beach, but in my vegetable garden.
The cherry tomato plants I bought in May seemed innocent enough. But they became a virtual explosion, with waves reaching out and reverberating across half of my garden. The chard & basil were overshadowed by them, and the butternut squash would have been overcome too, if I hadn't returned from vacation soon enough to cut back the tomato tidal wave to give them sun and space. The small supportive cages I'd put around the plants before my trip were easily overcome and covered with branches, leaves and the repeating pattern of tiny yellow flowers.
Those flowers were arranged along the growing edge of the side branches. As they were fertilized and bore their fruit, the tomatoes themselves also ripened in waves, the most inner growing and ripening first. The tiny green globes grew to be that cherry size and then ripen into the red tomatoes we all know and love. And it was over abundance. I couldn't pick them fast enough-- some of them ripened but split. Whether this is a "condition" or just a usual course of events for cherry tomatoes is still unknown to me-- I'm too busy keeping up with the plant, along with the zucchinis, to search it out, for now.
I had to do major pruning of the tomato plants but felt that sadness of wasting all those green babies that hadn't yet ruby-ed up. So I found a recipe for pickled green cherry tomatoes, bought some canning jars and tried 6 jars of the stuff. Now, after the time of fermenting, they taste like---pickles shaped like green tomatoes. Yum--I love them. My family, fearing my inexperience at such a project and less in love with pickles, has shunned them. Oh, well, more for me.
And wow-- they do green up over time if you leave the green ones together. Magic gases are released from them and they help ripen each other. So somedays I didn't have to trek out, just grab what I needed for salads from my ripening bowl. And as I continue to prune my plants, as they continue their slow motion explosion, I can now save those unriped ones for later use.
Soon the waves of summer tomatoes will subside. But I'll still have some of my pickles to remind me of them, as I plan my garden for next summer-- with more room for tsunamis of tomatoes.
Showing posts with label plants. Show all posts
Showing posts with label plants. Show all posts
18 September 2008
11 August 2008
Grandma and Her Plants- memoir
It all began when I was just a baby, crawling about on the ground. For some reason I wouldn’t venture into the grass. My mom could put me down on a blanket in the yard and I wouldn’t wander off it. Maybe it was the texture of grass—all pokey & tickly on my tender hands & knees. Or could it have been the color or smell?
As I grew I learned to love plants from my Grandma Johnson. She kept plants at her house, inside & out. The dormer window in her living room afforded them year round light. There was a fern that grew like a green fountain on top of the white, metal water heater in the kitchen. Its wispy, lanky leaves trickled down towards me, inviting me to play with them. I remember secretly, gently petting the velvet leaves of African violets. Grandma taught me as a young one not to touch the house plants, to look without disturbing them. This instilled a sense of awe.
When I was old enough to carry a child-sized watering can, I helped water the summer blossoms. Next to her back steps was a large rose bush with fragrant pink blossoms. There behind the bush, under the water spigot was a gray metal washtub. We filled it each evening with cold tap water so that the water could warm to air temperature before the next evening when we would sprinkle it lovingly on the plants.
We each would dip & fill our watering cans and I’d follow behind my big Bertha Grandma in her familiar house dress to each flower bed in turn – the purple pansies, the two large purple clematis vines growing on each side of the front porch entrance surrounded at their feet with red & white petunias, the lilies of the valley hidden in a shadier spot, and the pink snap dragons, bluebells, & cosmos flowers between the white picket fence and the driveway.
Afterwards we would sit outside a while in the white lawn chairs Grandpa had made in his wood shop & enjoy the summer evening air. (Of course I had a small chair made just my side.)
This nurturing of plants nurtured something in me that has grown through out my life, wherever I may be.
As I grew I learned to love plants from my Grandma Johnson. She kept plants at her house, inside & out. The dormer window in her living room afforded them year round light. There was a fern that grew like a green fountain on top of the white, metal water heater in the kitchen. Its wispy, lanky leaves trickled down towards me, inviting me to play with them. I remember secretly, gently petting the velvet leaves of African violets. Grandma taught me as a young one not to touch the house plants, to look without disturbing them. This instilled a sense of awe.
When I was old enough to carry a child-sized watering can, I helped water the summer blossoms. Next to her back steps was a large rose bush with fragrant pink blossoms. There behind the bush, under the water spigot was a gray metal washtub. We filled it each evening with cold tap water so that the water could warm to air temperature before the next evening when we would sprinkle it lovingly on the plants.
We each would dip & fill our watering cans and I’d follow behind my big Bertha Grandma in her familiar house dress to each flower bed in turn – the purple pansies, the two large purple clematis vines growing on each side of the front porch entrance surrounded at their feet with red & white petunias, the lilies of the valley hidden in a shadier spot, and the pink snap dragons, bluebells, & cosmos flowers between the white picket fence and the driveway.
Afterwards we would sit outside a while in the white lawn chairs Grandpa had made in his wood shop & enjoy the summer evening air. (Of course I had a small chair made just my side.)
This nurturing of plants nurtured something in me that has grown through out my life, wherever I may be.
30 June 2008
Prose: Hiking near Jewel Cave
Today I went for a hike through the Black Hills, instead of descending into Jewel Cave with my husband Victor & first grader Evan. I like crystals—but something about being underground is aversive for me. Plus it’s cooler down there and I’m already chilled from sleeping out in a tent. We have been cold and damp for all the days we’ve been here. If it were the full on heat of summer I might find it more appealing.
I set off on the Canyon trail loop. It switch backed down to the canyon floor. I was the only human soul in sight. There were bluebells & harebell & and a white, six petal star-shaped flower with yellow fireworks launching from her middle. Strawberries and wild rose plants, not yet blooming, also lined the pathway. And the biggest, healthiest, lushest stand of shepherd’s purse I’ve ever seen grows right at the bottom of the switchbacks.
Here a service road becomes the path. Being solitary in the middle of nature washes over me here. My psychological defenses dissolve. I become more porous, absorbing the vitality of the natural landscape while diffusing my tightness and neurotic thinking-ness into the ocean of nature. On one side of the canyon the rocks are a kaleidoscope of orange hues. Wild plum trees sweeten the air and each breath sweetens me.
Now the canyon opens up in front of me into a wider canyon with a meadow bottom. This area had been burned in the forest fire 8 years ago. Blackened trees stand watch, while others tumbled together on the re-newing soil. As I follow the service road which has been my path, a moment of panic suddenly hits me. Am I safe alone? Are there predators or bears nearby? Why did I suddenly get adrenalized? I stop and breathe in the clean air. I ask if this is intuition of danger. “NO” is the answer. Maybe I’d responded to the opening up of the landscape. I feel more vulnerable outside of the forested blanketing, more visible from a distance. I notice I’m taking the stance of prey rather than predator. Or maybe I sense the vestiges of animal fear from the fire that swept through here. When I stop and breathe, the panic inside left and I dissolve again into nature.
Here there is stand after stand of wild irises regally opening their lavender crowns. Evening primrose plants enjoy the moist meadow too. A pair of blue butterflies outlined in white play together near a yellow blossom. I walk on and on, drinking in my solitude and aliveness. Only once a jogger comes upon me and says, ”Nice time for wild flowers!” She smiles as she passes.
As the pathway curved back and forth through the winding canyon, the wind finds me at different angles. I pull on my windbreaker, only to curve back into a warmer corner and end up tying it back around my waist. At one turn the walls of rock amaze . One side was white with some red, while the other is black with some red. I wished for a camera. I wanted to capture the color of my hand against each of the stone colors and textures. Words can’t.
Entering into a more wooded area again, wild violets were popping up along the path. I bent to pick one for a taste of the canyon spring. Mmmm, sweet biting flavor and coolness.
Continuing along I wonder why I haven’t gotten back to the Visitors Center yet. Victor’s watch on my wrist says it’s past the time I’d estimated to be there. A doe leaps across my pathway, just as I see that the service road doesn’t lead me back to Jewel Cave. It goes to the highway, where the gate is locked. Should I backtrack to find where I failed to turn? Or go to the highway? I look to the deer- and she decidedly points towards the highway. So I stretch the barbed wire to duck beneath it. My day pack is grazed by the unfriendly barbs. Now which way? Right seems the way. And yes, a conveniently placed road sign say, “Jewel Cave - 1 mile”. Another sign nearby says, “Hell Canyon Trailhead.” Was that where I’d been?
By now I’m sweating in the heat of my hiking, even though the wind still blows cool. My legs are tired and walking the side of the road isn’t as pleasing as the canyon bottom.
Campers and RV’s rush past me as I secretly wish one would rescue me. Another mile seems like forever at this point, plus it was past our rendezvous time. Even the small stands of lavender irises along the roadway have a hard time breaking through my embarrassment at my misdirection. “I’m not lost, just took a detour. I’m just behind schedule.”
Each speeding vehicle seems to taunt my plodding pedestrian pace. I have to switch sides of the road to have enough shoulder to stay safely out of the way of wandering RV’s. Thinking like prey again. This is the longest of the 4 or 5 miles I’ve ended up hiking.
The twisting mountain road finally reaches the Jewel Cave turnoff. When we’d arrived in our car I hadn’t noticed how far it was from the highway to the Visitors Center. Another mile it seems. At least it is all downhill and there are fewer more subdued vehicles.
Is Victor worried? Had they started searching for me? I’m 40 minutes late. No one rushes up to me, happy that I’ve gotten back safely, when I able into the parking area. No one is at the picnic table where we’d had our snack. No Victor & Evan in the Visitors Center. I go back outside, pondering where to look for them next, when Evan yells, “I found her.” Victor comes over to hug me. My little adventure becomes part of our conversation as they tell me about what was under the ground that I’d been wandering over.
I set off on the Canyon trail loop. It switch backed down to the canyon floor. I was the only human soul in sight. There were bluebells & harebell & and a white, six petal star-shaped flower with yellow fireworks launching from her middle. Strawberries and wild rose plants, not yet blooming, also lined the pathway. And the biggest, healthiest, lushest stand of shepherd’s purse I’ve ever seen grows right at the bottom of the switchbacks.
Here a service road becomes the path. Being solitary in the middle of nature washes over me here. My psychological defenses dissolve. I become more porous, absorbing the vitality of the natural landscape while diffusing my tightness and neurotic thinking-ness into the ocean of nature. On one side of the canyon the rocks are a kaleidoscope of orange hues. Wild plum trees sweeten the air and each breath sweetens me.
Now the canyon opens up in front of me into a wider canyon with a meadow bottom. This area had been burned in the forest fire 8 years ago. Blackened trees stand watch, while others tumbled together on the re-newing soil. As I follow the service road which has been my path, a moment of panic suddenly hits me. Am I safe alone? Are there predators or bears nearby? Why did I suddenly get adrenalized? I stop and breathe in the clean air. I ask if this is intuition of danger. “NO” is the answer. Maybe I’d responded to the opening up of the landscape. I feel more vulnerable outside of the forested blanketing, more visible from a distance. I notice I’m taking the stance of prey rather than predator. Or maybe I sense the vestiges of animal fear from the fire that swept through here. When I stop and breathe, the panic inside left and I dissolve again into nature.
Here there is stand after stand of wild irises regally opening their lavender crowns. Evening primrose plants enjoy the moist meadow too. A pair of blue butterflies outlined in white play together near a yellow blossom. I walk on and on, drinking in my solitude and aliveness. Only once a jogger comes upon me and says, ”Nice time for wild flowers!” She smiles as she passes.
As the pathway curved back and forth through the winding canyon, the wind finds me at different angles. I pull on my windbreaker, only to curve back into a warmer corner and end up tying it back around my waist. At one turn the walls of rock amaze . One side was white with some red, while the other is black with some red. I wished for a camera. I wanted to capture the color of my hand against each of the stone colors and textures. Words can’t.
Entering into a more wooded area again, wild violets were popping up along the path. I bent to pick one for a taste of the canyon spring. Mmmm, sweet biting flavor and coolness.
Continuing along I wonder why I haven’t gotten back to the Visitors Center yet. Victor’s watch on my wrist says it’s past the time I’d estimated to be there. A doe leaps across my pathway, just as I see that the service road doesn’t lead me back to Jewel Cave. It goes to the highway, where the gate is locked. Should I backtrack to find where I failed to turn? Or go to the highway? I look to the deer- and she decidedly points towards the highway. So I stretch the barbed wire to duck beneath it. My day pack is grazed by the unfriendly barbs. Now which way? Right seems the way. And yes, a conveniently placed road sign say, “Jewel Cave - 1 mile”. Another sign nearby says, “Hell Canyon Trailhead.” Was that where I’d been?
By now I’m sweating in the heat of my hiking, even though the wind still blows cool. My legs are tired and walking the side of the road isn’t as pleasing as the canyon bottom.
Campers and RV’s rush past me as I secretly wish one would rescue me. Another mile seems like forever at this point, plus it was past our rendezvous time. Even the small stands of lavender irises along the roadway have a hard time breaking through my embarrassment at my misdirection. “I’m not lost, just took a detour. I’m just behind schedule.”
Each speeding vehicle seems to taunt my plodding pedestrian pace. I have to switch sides of the road to have enough shoulder to stay safely out of the way of wandering RV’s. Thinking like prey again. This is the longest of the 4 or 5 miles I’ve ended up hiking.
The twisting mountain road finally reaches the Jewel Cave turnoff. When we’d arrived in our car I hadn’t noticed how far it was from the highway to the Visitors Center. Another mile it seems. At least it is all downhill and there are fewer more subdued vehicles.
Is Victor worried? Had they started searching for me? I’m 40 minutes late. No one rushes up to me, happy that I’ve gotten back safely, when I able into the parking area. No one is at the picnic table where we’d had our snack. No Victor & Evan in the Visitors Center. I go back outside, pondering where to look for them next, when Evan yells, “I found her.” Victor comes over to hug me. My little adventure becomes part of our conversation as they tell me about what was under the ground that I’d been wandering over.
23 June 2008
My adventures with plants- Cronewort
Green eyes. When did my eyes turn green? Maybe after I bonded with the plants, entering into their slow and generous world.
That day in Ann Drucker's herb class was the taproot. We spent the day on the plains, in the WishGarden Herbs garden. It was an unusually misty, wet day for Colorado. On my way there I'd wondered if I'd end up going home early -- I hate cold wetness to my bone. Yet as we entered into the plant world by singing and opening our awareness, the water and cloudy coolness became nurturing respite from the usual burning Colorado sun.
The plant species each had their own personality. At first I chose Motherwort, wanting some mother wisdom about my children. I sat down next to her. Burying next to her a bit of herb from my garden as an offering. Asking her if I might receive a teaching from her.
As I listened inwardly, she squawked at me like a tired mother, bothered yet again by a thoughtless child. "You don't belong with me. Go to Cronewort with your questions. Leave me alone."
Taken aback, she was true to her prickley seed pods, setting her limits with a bit of a poke. "OK, I hear you. Sorry I bothered you."
I crawled a few yards through the muddy paths around the plants until I found Cronewort. Some know her as Mugwort. She was truly regal. Almost as tall as I was when I stand on my feet. But I kneeled in front of her, offering my herb and my song.
"Sacred Cronewort, hear my song. Make my way sacred, fill me with wisdom.
Sacred Cronewort, hear my song. Make my way sacred, fill me with beauty.
Fill me with wisdom, that I may bring others wisdom.
Fill me with beauty, that I may bring others beauty."
I asked to partake of her leaves and her wisdom. She nodded her head in the moist wind. I beheld her physical form, jagged leaves shadowed with silvery green, watching for the leaves that were offering themselves to me. When I saw them, I gently removed them from her branch and clutched them to my heart in thanks. Then I took them into my mouth, chewing slowly, tasting her leaf juices mingled with my juices. I sat still in the misty rain.
As I sat the rain would change her song, falling with a deeper tone with larger drops, then more staccato, then leaving a misty space of quiet rest between.
The essence of cronewort juice rose to my head. I felt that regal sense agian, now inside of me, and knew yet another name for her-- Crownwort. I felt she had crowned me with the beginning of my cronehood, the sensation of a royal crown on my head. I felt my shushumna, the energetic spine, fill and glow and my crown chakra awaken by her powers, just as I had felt it happen before by chanting sacred words or being in the presence of saints. I sat still in the misty rain.
The honor and peace of Cronewort's initiation of me smoothed my way into my menopausal years.
That day in Ann Drucker's herb class was the taproot. We spent the day on the plains, in the WishGarden Herbs garden. It was an unusually misty, wet day for Colorado. On my way there I'd wondered if I'd end up going home early -- I hate cold wetness to my bone. Yet as we entered into the plant world by singing and opening our awareness, the water and cloudy coolness became nurturing respite from the usual burning Colorado sun.
The plant species each had their own personality. At first I chose Motherwort, wanting some mother wisdom about my children. I sat down next to her. Burying next to her a bit of herb from my garden as an offering. Asking her if I might receive a teaching from her.
As I listened inwardly, she squawked at me like a tired mother, bothered yet again by a thoughtless child. "You don't belong with me. Go to Cronewort with your questions. Leave me alone."
Taken aback, she was true to her prickley seed pods, setting her limits with a bit of a poke. "OK, I hear you. Sorry I bothered you."
I crawled a few yards through the muddy paths around the plants until I found Cronewort. Some know her as Mugwort. She was truly regal. Almost as tall as I was when I stand on my feet. But I kneeled in front of her, offering my herb and my song.
"Sacred Cronewort, hear my song. Make my way sacred, fill me with wisdom.
Sacred Cronewort, hear my song. Make my way sacred, fill me with beauty.
Fill me with wisdom, that I may bring others wisdom.
Fill me with beauty, that I may bring others beauty."
I asked to partake of her leaves and her wisdom. She nodded her head in the moist wind. I beheld her physical form, jagged leaves shadowed with silvery green, watching for the leaves that were offering themselves to me. When I saw them, I gently removed them from her branch and clutched them to my heart in thanks. Then I took them into my mouth, chewing slowly, tasting her leaf juices mingled with my juices. I sat still in the misty rain.
As I sat the rain would change her song, falling with a deeper tone with larger drops, then more staccato, then leaving a misty space of quiet rest between.
The essence of cronewort juice rose to my head. I felt that regal sense agian, now inside of me, and knew yet another name for her-- Crownwort. I felt she had crowned me with the beginning of my cronehood, the sensation of a royal crown on my head. I felt my shushumna, the energetic spine, fill and glow and my crown chakra awaken by her powers, just as I had felt it happen before by chanting sacred words or being in the presence of saints. I sat still in the misty rain.
The honor and peace of Cronewort's initiation of me smoothed my way into my menopausal years.
12 May 2008
I'm Curious About Datura
I’m curious about the Datura. This powerful plant seduces me. In the alley, next to Lucille’s Cajun restaurant, Datura has been growing for years. This viney stem has large leaves and gigantic white trumpet blossoms that open and close each day. She attracts me like a bee. She takes over the physical and energetic landscape. I hear her whispering, ”Come closer.” I feel her drawing me near. Whenever I approach her, be it in a friend’s Boulder garden or next to a wooden fence in a clearing of the Belizean rain forest, I am captivated. Does this happen to everyone?
Datura can be a medicine inhaled for asthma. World wide this plant has been used for spiritual seeking. I know Datura can be poisonous- eating a mouthful of the leaves can kill. Still I made a flower essence of the Belizean blossom. When I took the essence that night, I tranced an amazing tryst with the stars. But that’s another story.
Soon, I'm planting Datura in my new garden plot to see what more she has to share with me. The master gardener said to harden her off before I plant, to wait another week to avoid frost, "be sure her roots are planted well and stand back." I envision a tangled bed of Datura and squashes to feed my wildness in the middle of my safe suburban neighborhood. Maybe I need a little danger to feel at home.
Datura can be a medicine inhaled for asthma. World wide this plant has been used for spiritual seeking. I know Datura can be poisonous- eating a mouthful of the leaves can kill. Still I made a flower essence of the Belizean blossom. When I took the essence that night, I tranced an amazing tryst with the stars. But that’s another story.
Soon, I'm planting Datura in my new garden plot to see what more she has to share with me. The master gardener said to harden her off before I plant, to wait another week to avoid frost, "be sure her roots are planted well and stand back." I envision a tangled bed of Datura and squashes to feed my wildness in the middle of my safe suburban neighborhood. Maybe I need a little danger to feel at home.
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