Has anyone ever told you to go touch grass? It’s one of my favorite things to do, and I particularly love ripping it out of the ground with my bare hands. The grass that grows inexplicably in my raised bed garden flourishes more than any of my other plants, and if I don’t pull it up once a week it will choke out everything else that I’m desperately trying to keep alive.
Yesterday, while plucking it out blade by blade (that way they know what’s coming), I noticed something had popped up where the thyme would have been if it hadn’t shriveled to dust weeks ago during the heat wave. I was excited. Maybe what I thought was long dead had fought its way back!
There’s an app called Picture This (not sponsored 🙂 ) that will identify any plant you take a picture of. I had grown something called a Graceful Spurge. How lovely! Alas, it only took a quick scroll down to learn that my little sprout was just an invasive weed. Argh.
As you might have guessed, I’m not a farmer. Anything I harvest was an accident of fate. Even my house plants are clinging to life, although I am raising a fairly hearty cactus.
Every October (remember, I live in Arizona) I research and resoil and plant new seeds with the highest of hopes and I get so excited when even a few things come up. There is a lot of satisfaction in that, and I really enjoy the time I spend out there with my hands in the dirt. Taking care of my little patch of dirt and dying things is quite therapeutic in a way.
This season was a little different though. Last October I found myself in the throes of chemotherapy and was afraid I wouldn’t be able to have a garden at all, but my friends Kelly and Tracey came to the rescue. We had breakfast and then spent an entire Fall morning out there planting and potting and decorating.
Now, when I pick the tomatoes and peppers we planted and make tea from an astonishing amount of chamomile, I can’t help but remember that day. True happiness that poked through a cloud of dismal dark times. I’m convinced that my love for those women who got down in the dirt with me is the reason for all of my garden’s uncharacteristic success this year. Each time I touch grass, I think of them.
Right before I rip it out of the ground.