The title isn’t what you think. I am a happy but at times hazardous gardener. My chiropractor grins when I call some Monday mornings begging for an emergency appointment. Aspirin stock soars during the season.
Cutting down long overlooked chokecherry saplings isn’t difficult unless you misjudge the trajectory and the tree deals you a glancing blow on the shoulder.
The deep wheelbarrow filled with dirt from my newly dug fire pit went wobbly on me and I power lifted one side rather than let go and spill the contents. My right arm didn’t work well for a week.
Why do I risk it? I can’t stay away. Over the years of child rearing, working, writing, and living the garden has become my haven, my solace and my therapy. Digging in the dirt is cheaper than therapy. Of course, the plants, the mulch, the garden art, the ancillary necessities might cost as much as therapy but you have something lovely to show for the expense.
Most Sundays I sit quietly and write in my journal grateful for the aspirin the night before and the strong coffee in the morning. We’re having unseasonably chilly weather; I’ve brought a light blanket with me to the garden bench—the one close to the house. The sun is coming up behind the neighbors pine trees.
Is this heaven? No, it’s a garden.
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