So there I was, standing in the unfinished small garden . . maybe I should start officially calling it the Unfinished Garden . . and I realised I was saying the same old things . . I don't even remember what, was it that level ground should look actually, you know, level, or that ag drains should actually, you know, drain somewhere . . and I realised I was done.
I said I was done and I went around to the big garden and I lay on the lawn in the shade and listened to the rustling of the leaves and the chirping of the birds, and I remembered why I like being in the garden.
After a while I went back around and retrieved all the plants that obviously would not get planted in the Unfinished Garden that day because there was too much prep work to do over and I found alternative places for them and I dug and planted and transplanted and mulched, and I remembered why I like working in the garden.
At 9.30pm I marched inside, marveling at how adrenaline can make one unaware of the stiffness and soreness of an old gardener's body. And I've barely looked at the garden since. I just need to put it aside. I need to nag about argue about concentrate on the inside. And if and when I go back to being a gardener I need to love it again, like I did before it became an extension of the stupidity of the inside.
