Talking with the Worms

In middle Tennessee, it's not quite time to do alot of planting, but I'm happy to say that most of my indoor starter seeds are showing signs of germinating . . . but oh--so--delicate is my "certified organic" investment at this point! However, today was a great morning to pull weeds, since it has rained alot the last couple of days. We had a few hours before Ali was to dump three yards of Midnight Mulch in our driveway so we picked our way through all the beds trying to discern the new growth from the imposters. But happy day, each time I turned the soil over I'd find a little earthworm and talk to it. "Hello, little earthworm. I hope you're happy living with the gerber daisies that pop up here every year, even though they usually aren't perennials." "Hi, little wormies. Thank you for creating air pockets in the clay next to my Texas Bluebonnets that have never bloomed in the 10 years I've lived here." "Oops, sorry Mr. Earthworm. I didn't mean to cut off your tail . . . or was that your head?"

Later, when the mulch had been delivered and the tornado sirens started going off in our neighborhood, I discovered that you can buy the most amazing products from the Gardener's Supply Company, including an upside down "gardener's revolutionary tomato planter", fabric potato bins that can hold a 13 lb. potato harvest (Davey may not have to dig me a new space after all!) . . . but nothing can beat an order of 2000 earthworms for only $92.00 (seeds of change.com)! "Hey little earthworms, you are quite the little entrepreneurs, aren't you?"

Pinch Me (I'm 1/6 Irish)!

For some reason, I've always wanted to be Irish, especially on St. Patrick's Day. (Then again, I always dreamed of having children with brown skin). The reality is, I'm a mix of the genes and chromosomes of generations of Everetts, McKenzies, Stallworths, Currys, Hendersons and Fannins . . . not that exciting in today's multi-ethnic, multi-cultural economy. My heritage, according to surname, is 3/6 Scottish, 2/6 English and 1/6 Irish, (my Fannin ancestors). In the vast American melting pot I'm just another WASP [white, anglo-saxon, protestant] . . . but I'm glad to be a wee bit related to the Christian this day claims to honor . . . especially since Patrick was actually born in Scotland!!

Coughing Up A Garden (Click here)

Before I went to bed last night, I encountered the familiar spasms which signal that my late-winter (better-not-be-asthma) coughing fits have arrived for their annual visit. I had two English classes to teach today, so I swallowed my big gun cough medicine and fixed my pillows so I could sleep-sit. Unfortunately, I awakened with the same choking drip-drip-drip so I canceled my classes. It was 7:30 a.m. when I faced this unexpected day of rest, covered up with my Sari Bari, with books, hot tea and . . . oh yay . . . a computer so I can plan my garden! Anna and Rainor came by yesterday and she shared two good websites to explore, so the "seed" was already "planted"!

Soon I was transported to the hill country of Fredricksburg, TX and the colorful website of Wildseed Farms. I ordered some wildflower mix for Zone 6B as well as some Velvet Queen and Tangerine sunflowers. Next I clicked my way to Seeds of Change* a site that supports sustainable organic agriculture--this was a little intimidating but I can tell I'll learn alot from it, especially now that my sustainable ag expert (Joel) has moved . . . I've always tried to cultivate and tend my garden using organic methods, but it's time to take another step . . . in organic gardening genetics counts (thanks Anna!) beginning with the seeds. Oops. I usually start with little plantlings that may or may not be organic, so this year I'll sow some literal seeds of change.

Garden Seeds. Urban Gardening. Four Season Gardening. Herbs. Vegetables. Flowers. Click, click, click. I like to experiment with sunflowers so I ordered some Jerusalem Dwarf seeds. Also some new-to-me perennials including Peach Campanula, Gloriosa Daisies, Cardinal Flowers . . . and one "curious" fall bloomer called Pumpkin on a Stick--I hope they're like the little dried pumpkins I've bought at Yarrow Acres in Franklin! Herbs are a must, but I've never grown them from seeds. I hope to cultivate Bouquet Dill, Slow Bolt Cilantro, Rosemary, Lime and Thai Basil, and Sweet Marjoram to transplant after April 15 (here). My big commitment this year is to grow our salad through the fall. I ordered two packs of Peacevine Cherry Tomato seeds, Rubens Red Romaine Lettuce, Little Caesar Lettuce, Buttercrunch Butterhead Lettuce, American and Bloomsdale Spinach, Bush Champion Cucumbers, Pizza Chili Peppers (a mild jalapeno) and a 20-crown pack of Albion Strawberries (please bear edible berries twice!). Finally . . . I will try my hand at some Cranberry Red Potatoes if I can talk my sweet husband into digging out a new little garden patch for them!

And now I must really rest . . . for now I must decide where I'm going to put all those planting boxes until they can be transplanted outdoors . . . then which herbs and vegetables will be good "neighbors" in my deep compact bed . . . then how to amend the soil and keep up with them over the summer. Cough, cough cough . . . oh why didn't I just go on to class?

* Nashville area friends can find Seeds of Change packets at All Seasons on 8th Ave. or The Turnip Truck on Woodland.

Two Interesting Questions

I grew up in a somewhat liturgical tradition, yet never paid much attention to all the changing colors and candles and fabrics or what they symbolized. The last few years I’ve become more intentional about marking the church year, which enriches my personal and shared celebration of the living Christ. However, just before Easter last year, I commented to my small group that “it doesn’t feel like it should be Easter time.” I still felt the dreariness of my winter--or spiritual--hibernation. Maybe that’s why I’ve been trying to pay more attention this year. Advent, then Christmas, then the Twelve Days of Christmas, and Epiphany . . . until finally Ash Wednesday was on my horizon. Several years ago, my kindred friend, Melinda, told me how meaningful the “St. B’s” Ash Wednesday service was. I mentally filed her suggestion away, but have never attended one . . . but this New Year’s, when I was marking special days on my new Mary Engelbreit calendar, I remembered her words.

Last week, I was reading about Ash Wednesday as “an invitation” to the Lenten season. I’ve always considered Lent a cheerless, rather legalistic tradition—usually revolving around a diet of some sort. I hadn’t considered that, celebrated correctly, it is a time of being refreshed by a loving God with the purpose of strengthening our spiritual lives. I totally missed the point that forty days to focus on the meaning of my life in Christ is not so much about taking off something as taking on a spiritual discipline or practice to cleanse my mind and focus my soul before Easter. Oh . . .

The evening before Ash Wednesday (aka Fat Tuesday), I looked up the times for Ash Wednesday services and texted Kristi to see if she wanted to join me. “Yes!” she replied. But by the next morning I had a nagging headache . . . maybe from some trepidation about being an outsider for an Anglican tradition I didn’t really understand. I told Kristi that if she really wanted to go she would have to talk me into it. All she said was, “Melinda would want you to go.” Oh . . .

So we met, and happily, found our friend, Deb, who knew what to expect and helped us navigate all the readings and prayers and kneeling and going forward and kneeling and going forward and kneeling again. It was a rich experience . . . especially the serene quietness and unhurried pace . . . for that hour I was truly an insider because it was not me-centered, but Christ-centered. Everyone parted after sharing The Peace, with little crosses of ash gently drawn on our foreheads (not fireplace ashes, but the cinders saved from last year’s palm fronds from the Palm Sunday processional) Oh . . .

As we drove away, each person had an inner conflict to resolve—do I rub off the ashes or leave them for a while? You don’t want to make someone to feel “irreligious” for not acknowledging this holy day; yet you don’t want to be ashamed to share an outward sign of your faith . . . these days, the most common question is not “Where did you get your ashes?” but “What is that mark on your face?” I drove through Starbucks to get some tea (not what I’m taking off during Lent) but the well-trained barista acted like he didn’t notice and said nothing at all!

I went on to the office, and began my Wednesday afternoon ritual. . . making copies for my ESL classes, spreading them out on the floor, and crawling around on my hands and knees to collate them. But while I was kneeling for this totally different purpose, I felt a little POP! and a weird sinking feeling all through my way-lower back (aka boot). Even though it took me about ten minutes to get up, move to a chair, summon my husband for some Advil, then shuffle to the car, I found myself giggling at the irony. My ashes were washed off within a few hours, but for a few days now, I’ve had quite a few people ask “Why are you limping?” The only honest answer is, “I guess I don’t kneel often enough.” Oh . . .