Lining up ducks...

This is going to seem like even more of a non-sequitur than anything else on here lately, but here it goes:

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”

Thanks to the most quotable Mark Twain.

I used to have the "explore, dream, discover" on my refrigerator when I lived in Vancouver. A lifetime ago, in so many ways. Imagine that. Life showed up and I'm more entrenched in the harbor than I ever thought I'd be.

I'm familiar with an unsafe harbor, which is where I now find myself. Previously, it's proved to be one of my more creative places. But then something happens and life continues on. So here I am again.

Life is short, and getting my proverbial ducks lined up, I thought, would make the sail into unsafe waters a bit easier. But maybe I didn't need so many ducks, or perhaps only some of them needed to line up.

Regardless, I've said goodbye to my safe harbor and I'm underway. And I'm not afraid to rock the boat. But meanwhile, my heart aches beyond description, and it appears I'm on my own for the rest of this journey, ducks in line or no ducks.

Toxicity

A strong word... dangerous, poisonous, possibly deadly. We're fortunate here; we have some noxious weeds and insects, but nothing particularly serious, more nuisance than threatening.

I'm struggling to write tonight because I'm trying to process hearing the word "toxic" applied to something that I don't believe actually fits. Lacking skill, lacking the right mix of nutrients, the right methods, perhaps, but not toxic. What grows, grows because of the groundwork laid, or not laid, if careful tilling wasn't done. Careful observation, the sharing of information, a willingness to trust. When those don't happen, the weeds can seem pervasive, but with care, they can be removed and replaced with something healthy and beautiful. But it requires will, energy, commitment, and the right tools - and quite possibly, expert insight if the knowledge and tools aren't there. Without these, weeds can indeed take over, and not just a single plot, but with every opportunity, as expansively as they're able.

It just seems easier to me to get to the root of it all, go to where the weeds began and at key leverage points when possible, both independently and in relationship to what else is around, because they're all interconnected. To then clean it all up, do the necessary work, lay new groundwork, and let something new and different take root. Even if it seems like its been done before, it isn't and can't possibly be the same, because over time, the weeds change, new tools have been developed, new skills learned, new information gained.

Some, however, like to believe the wise "Monsanto-types," those who appear to be knowledgeable, caring about the outcome, offering a "fix" for whatever ails, when really, they just want to sell their product and ultimately, they do more harm than good. Catalysts to something different, perhaps, but certainly not something better.

Or they just see the same weeds, and run to the next place where the weeds look different, or maybe non-existent, maybe just not as many, or maybe they seem somehow... better, less threatening. Or they're easier to ignore because they're not visibly present all the time, kind of that "don't think of an elephant" way of seeing the world. But dealing with them in a vaccuum won't work, either.

There's no easy fix, and it's all about hard work, if you don't want weeds. Or rather, if you want the weeds to be manageable, because I don't think there is such a thing as completely weed-free. I'm pretty sure that's impossible, albeit something to strive for.

I'm trying to work with my weeds. Some of them have some amazingly deep roots, some were addressed but found a new place to grow, and a big challenge is working on them in relationship to how the more recent actually grew, given that the landscape has changed. That's an area where I'd like to do some work, because I think it's an important place. But in that case, it takes more than just me, and I don't know if that'll happen.

Regardless, I'm committed to exposing as much as I can to get to a place of manageability so they can't ever take over. There aren't any toxins here, just some old groundwork and outdated methods that can be damaging to the good that's been created. And there's so much good - it just seems hidden when the weeds become overwhelming and the right tools aren't at hand.

Seeds yet to sprout

There's something to be said for the planning part of gardening. Where to plant what, how each seed or plant will work with its neighbor, how much room each plant needs to grow and thrive, the complimentary nutrients, other needs...

While looking at seed packets and thinking about what'll be in the beds this fall and winter, the anticipation of what might be is clearly there. Although nothing has actually been decided yet... I'm not even sure that all our gardeners will be returning for another season, although I've so enjoyed getting to know them and sharing the space that I hope they do.

I'm starting to feel some real "possibility," what a little care and nurturing might do to the seeds that get planted. I can't even begin to think about spring, and winter seems daunting, but I can look forward to new growth and a fall harvest rich with color and flavors, and maybe some surprises.

Betrayal

I woke up this morning thinking about betrayal and all its meanings. We planted seeds that we expected to produce peppers and tomatillos, and what we got was nightshade. Not just any weed, but a noxious one. So we've pulled up all the would-be peppers and the soil now sits fallow.

The seeds appear to be fine; they're from a reputable supplier. But the soil we planted in was soil we'd dug up from another part of the yard - perhaps not the best for planting seeds and clearly full of stuff we didn't know about, didn't want.

What a surprise it was when the realization hit. The disappointment. Some sadness, because we were so looking forward to what we would produce. It's interesting when you expect, hope for, anticipate, one thing and something completely different happens.

Kind of like my life right now. The seeds we planted 13 years ago both flourished and faltered at different times. We started out open, raw, honest, and grew close through sharing our deepest selves. Over the years, we've both developed and lost different tools, some effective, some not, and didn't always know the right ones to use. Perhaps sometimes it was easier to not use any at all and just wait and see. What I wish we'd have done sooner was to get help so what we created could flourish with tending and care.

Now I'm trying to tend my own soil and clear away debris. Yet there are still garden chores to tend to, responsibilities to share, a household to address and cats who need a lot of attention and love. All of this must be done with some kind of harmony.

Buy nothing

Until now, I've had no interest in the "buy nothing" piece of the sustainability movement. But my motivation has changed. So today begins my year of buying nothing. And I'm stating it here to help hold me to my commitment. Whether or not anyone actually reads this blog, it's still a visible declaration.

So this post isn't about the garden, but it is about being more self-sufficient and sustainable, primarily personally but also because of my commitment to doing the right thing for the planet wherever possible. I'd say this is one area I've been out of integrity.

There will be exceptions - house emergencies, cat requirements - and food and household items are of course necessary. But I have to be careful about what I consider necessary - it's far too easy to stop at the local drug store for allergy pills and pick up a new tube of unneeded lipstick or jar of lotion. I'm not a spendthrift by any means and I'm fairly frugal, but when I do shop, it's often for the wrong reasons.

Why today? My life has taken a new turn.

For most of my life, I equated "stuff" with safety and love. Shop therapy served me for a long time, but no longer. Sometimes I consider shopping as entertainment or my clothes as part of my creative self-expression. But it's really more than that. When I'm feeling insecure, or unsafe, or scared, these purchases offer a momentary lift.

I no longer want the distraction of the "treasure hunt" or "something new," the false sense of being whole and complete. It's time for me to address my underlying safety and insecurity issues, thanks in large part to the baggage of my youth, so that I can come to a new place of power and choice.

For the last several days, I've been purging. I have donated about 20 bags or boxes of house and personal goods to Goodwill, and taken about five bags of food to the food bank collection boxes. My recycling containers are overflowing. I hope to never have so much stuff - ever again. And I'm not done. I would like to live life more lightly. My last purchase was a new camera, which for me is an important tool for living.

Lessons from my grandfather

My grandfather was a gifted gardener. After he retired from the Bremerton Naval Shipyard (prior to that, he was a Merchant Marine and traveled the world), he spent most of his waking hours in the garden. At dawn, he'd step out onto the back porch, look out over the Olympic mountains, and take three deep breaths. And then he was off - picking peach curl from his beloved trees, planting seeds, weeding, giving special attention to his infamous Roma's or Golden Jubilees, chatting up the neighbors, the garbage collectors, the mentally challenged man named Roy who walked by several times a day...

I don't have a lot of childhood memories, but there are enough pictures of me in the garden with him to trigger at least a few. We'd sometimes cloud watch together and find pictures in the sky. I know he'd sing, "Don't sit under the apple tree, with anyone else but me..." The Gravenstein apple tree is still in the Northeast corner of the yard; I'm not sure whether he or his dad planted it. I'd climb to the top with a book and read - the view was spectacular, the branches placed just right for sitting, and when in season, I'd savor the sweet/tart flavor of the apples - still my favorite of all the varieties.

He taught me about fairness, about honesty, about integrity. We're all equal. Don't lie. Be respectful. Patience offers many rewards. Pay attention to the details; observe closely - and from afar. Treat people the way you want to be treated. Realize that the limitations of others can be a gift to the rest of us. Share your wealth, in whatever way that shows up, and yourself. Care deeply. Be considerate. Be who you say you are.

These were good lessons to learn and have served me well throughout most of my life. I'm so grateful for the friends I have who give so generously of themselves, who support me in times of need, who care deeply. I value their honesty and integrity, and I'm happy for the gift of their love and concern.

My grandfather died at age 70 when I was just nine, and I have few close relatives left. While my childhood was not idyllic by any stretch, I do know that my time in the garden with him was truly meaningful. I think he was most happy and at peace there, growing things, creating something from nearly nothing, making connections, sharing his wealth.

Rain comes

We've had a few days of rain now. The rain barrels are full. While I'm grateful for the water, there's a sense that the dark days of autumn are near.

Shiv dropped off some lovely round plums yesterday from the tree he planted on our parking strip.

Garden as metaphor...

The garden is in transition. Fiery colors prevail. The tomatoes are ripening daily. Carrots are thinning but still flourishing. The rainbow chard is bright and colorful.

Most of the other summer crops are dead. The weeds are coming back. Only a couple of new plants have been set into the ground; the next stage plants yet to be determined. We've talked about a variety of greens, beets, and radishes.

But given time and place, I'm not really sure what any of this will look like.

And so it goes...

Did the sky dry up?

I can't remember when we've gone this long without rain. And the last several days have been gray and cool and threatening, but still not wet. Just today, I finally see rain predicted on my iGoogle forecast for the coming week, and it actually seems like it might come true this time. Rain has been predicted a few times over the last couple months, but has only minutely paid a visit. I never thought I'd say I was ready for rain.

Seattlest reports, by way of KING 5 Television's weather person, Jeff Renner, that June and July were our driest ever; not quite a quarter inch ( .24) of rain during those two months (a dry season that started mid-May and continues today). The record during that same period is just under half an inch (but the blog report doesn't give the year), although posts elsewhere mention both 2003 and 1965 as very dry summers.

According to the National Climatic Data Center, on July 16, 2009, we were experiencing moderate drought conditions:

The 0.18 inches (5 mm) at Seattle-Tacoma Airport was the third driest June on record dating back to 1948. There were 29 consecutive days (May 20th to June 17th) without measureable rain in Seattle, tying the record for a May-June dry spell.

Wonder where we're at now? And why I can't find anything more current to tell me? I do know that wetter than usual conditions are expected over the next week or so... Wonder what that'll do to the tomatoes?

Delicacy discovered ... in my own backyard

Twitter is one of those social networking tools that I have mixed feelings about. I signed on because I need to know how to - and while I was job hunting, show that I can - use the tools of the day, given that I'm a "communicator" by trade or profession. But I don't post often, despise those posts that add no value (e.g., so and so is having a fine day...), find it most useful as a news feed (and am "following" many of the major, foreign and food/ag/health-related media), but still don't check it regularly (although I did discover a way to feed it to my Facebook profile, which nicely removes one step... ).

But today I learned about fennel pollen, thanks to Twitter and a local favorite, Amy Pennington's GoGoGreenGarden. I have a vague recollection of hearing about it once before from a local chef, but clearly put it out of mind.

Apparently, fennel pollen is considered a delicacy, and is very expensive if purchased, when you can even find it. I have fennel plants growing like weeds in my yard, and right now, the tall, licorice smelling plants have lovely yellow blossoms on the tops of their long stalks. It's time to harvest!

I looked online to get a better idea of just how to do this, and the best post was from SFGate.com, circa 1999. And I'm only just now learning about this! I love fennel, but only recently tried adding the bulb - cooked and uncooked - to salads and saute's. It's divine. The seeds are what I'm most accustomed to, however, and have many yummy memories of dipping fingers into bowls of seeds at Vancouver's Indian restaurants, or tasting them in savory Eastern dinners. While fennel pollen is reported to taste different, all reports say it's an amazing spice for fish, pork, lamb... or whatever you might want to try it on (a few ideas and links can be found at The Kitchen).

I just picked several blossoms and put them upside down in a paper bag to dry. Probably not enough, though, so I'll pick more tomorrow (when it's light out again) to make sure I have a nice supply. I'm eager to try this new-found seasoning - it adds yet another option for experimenting with food, something I've grown to really like doing.

The funny thing, to me, is how often I've thought I should pull all this darn stuff up; like the oregano, it could take over if I let it. I think I've just had a change of heart.

Seattle Times features sustainable 'hoods...

...and we're included! Check it out in today's Pacific Magazine. My quotes aren't quite right and there were many other good photos the photographer could have chosen, but so it goes...

The shoot took place on the first - and last - day of rain sometime in June. Most of the gardeners were there, and we were all excited to see the rain (and hoping for a lot more). Despite those pictures not making it into the paper, I'm glad we were all able to be part of that. It was a fun time, and really illustrated the community connection we were creating.