Bursting at the Seams

Get yourself a cup of tea or coffee or a glass of wine - this is going to be a long meander through the gardens.

This summer might be "one for the books". A summer where the rains were timely, the fertility was adequate and the heat was bearable.

The gardens are bursting at their seams. Marigolds from seeds from my friend, Marnie have popped through the lattice fence.

Sunflowers from seeds that my friend, Miriam gave me are becoming more "pickable". At first, the flowers were very short-stemmed, but the later ones are growing longer stems. Nice. And, isn't it cool how this variety holds onto yesterday's rain?

Inside the greenhouse, the hot weather crops are exploding. Tomorrow, I will make some zucchini relish and can it. There are 4 zucchini plants dominating the greenhouse and we experimented with planting zucchini in new outdoor places: between hostas in the border, next to pumpkins along the stone wall and in the vegetable garden. You will see some more as we continue our tour.

You might have been wondering if the melons had made their way into the greenhouse. There they are!

Below is the first zucchini to set fruit in the hosta border.

Melons leaped over the fence a couple of weeks ago. At least we will be able to see these so we can pick them at the right time.

Not sure if we will be so lucky with the main patch of melons. I am getting very good at balancing as I make my way through the melons.

Hmmm... there's one. Maybe I should put a stake next to any melon I find.

The row of pollinator plants is starting to bring a lot of joy.

Some of them are gigantic, like the white Amaranthus. I think I'll try some in bouquets, but also try saving the seeds. It will be fun to eat our own nutritional seeds next winter.

I believe this is the largest pumpkin so far. It will continue ripening until it is almost red. My favourite pumpkin variety - the French Vif D'Etempes.

Continuing on the zucchini mini-thread: here is one in the main vegetable garden.

We probably needed a much larger piece of fencing for our cucumbers. From this vantage point, it looks like there are no cucumbers.......

.... but if you reach in with your camera and point and shoot..... lots of cucumbers...

.... not to be outdone by another patch behind the shop.... this one is bursting THROUGH the fence.

Last Monday, I harvested around 10 lbs. of blueberries. Tomorrow, there will be somewhere around 5 lbs. The early varieties are finished.

And, Elderberries are starting to bulk up. It will be lovely to include elderberry juice in our breakfast bowls this winter. Memories of summer in your mouth.

Dill are allowed to grow wherever they wish. If you support Swallowtail butterflies, you get a pass and can do whatever you want.

I was wondering if last week's 7+cm of rain would trigger some mushrooms to grow. Why yes it did! Thousands of mushrooms.

And, in the pollinator garden in the front ditch, Joe Pye Weeds are now growing. It's interesting what seeds remained latent while that area was mowed as a lawn. We stopped cutting and surprise! Joe Pye Weeds.

You may have been wondering how far our perennial garden's invasive pumpkin plant has traveled. This week, it will have reached across the entire garden to the driveway. Not sure if it will produce any pumpkins with all of that competition.

We cannot walk through the gardens without admiring my favourite annuals, Verbena Bonariensis. I love how they form a lattice to see other plants through. When it's sunny there is always a Monarch butterfly or two enjoying their nectar.

I cannot get my fill of them.

Cosmos seeded themselves down here and there.

...

... and this tiger lily was here when we bought this place 26 years ago. This year, I paid more attention to it and dusted it with diatomaceous earth a few times to get ahead of the red lily beetles. It worked!

I love how they hold onto the remaining raindrops.

One of my favourite native pollinator plants is New York Ironweed. It's around 7' tall and birds love to take a rest on its branches.

Thank you Marga for this phlox.

When we had the driveway sealed last week, we had to move the pumpkin and its vine. I am hoping they survived the moving. It will be soooo cool to see the bright orange/red pumpkin at the edge of the garden next month.

Another native, Fragrant Hyssop is in its glory right now. Bees absolutely adore it and it's great in floral arrangements too.

The pumpkin plants behind the rock wall are taking over the lawn.

Whatever.

And, circling back to the house, over 100 Mesclun greens have been transplanted into larger pods. They are getting ready to be planted in the garden and possibly greenhouse for fall harvesting. I still need to transplant the tray on the left.... they too are bursting at their seams.

I hinted that this post would be a longer one. We have only just begun. You may wish to get that second cup of tea.

I have been saving this poem on my desktop for a month, waiting patiently for a blog post that would complement its words. I think today is the day. From a new favourite poet, Matt Moberg:

All’ve It

I think every human being eventually has a moment

where they are standing outside in sweatpants

that have lost the will to be pants,

holding a trash bag, a divorce, a parking ticket,

or some other receipt from the universe

that says,

“surprise, this too is part of it.”

And then the sky bruises purple.

And the air touches your face

like it knows your whole story.

And suddenly you realize:

all the real is actually unreal.

The dirt.

The breath.

The weird little bones in your hands.

The fact that we are here,

on a floating rock with pollen counts,

paying bills,

missing dead people,

loving living people

who say “leaving now”while still fully naked and looking for socks.

And still,

the moon clocks in.

No applause.

No benefits.

No note from management saying,

“Great work being ancient and luminous again.”

Just the moon,

working nights

like a single mother with no applause,

packing silver lunches

for every dark thing

that still has to rise.

Tell me that isn’t holy.

Tell me there is a better word

than sacred

for the way light keeps returning

with no guarantee

we will actually stop and take note.

I know people who believe in therapy,

probiotics,

tarot,

twelve-step meetings,

manifestation journals,

and waiting exactly eleven minutes

before texting back

so they do not appear emotionally available,

even though their whole nervous system

is standing in the driveway holding flowers.

And underneath all of it

every ritual,

every doctrine,

every smoothie with chia seeds,

the prayer is the same:

Please let me be loved.

Please let me be forgiven.

Please let this strange little life

mean something

before my lower back

submits its formal resignation.

What is going on?

For real tho—

What is this place?

This unbearable tenderness

of being alive long enough

to watch steam lift from coffee in winter

like a soul practicing leaving.

To see your friend laugh so hard

they slap the table

as if joy is a mosquito

they are trying to kill.

To hear a child say “pisghetti”and,

for one shining second,

realize language

has finally been improved.

I know I already noted this in the first piece,

but the older I get,

the less use I have for certainty.

Certainty has never made me pull over

because the sunset looked like God

dropped a jar of peach jam

across the whole midwestern sky

and decided to be lazy

and not clean up.

Certainty has never made me gasp

at rain on hot pavement.

Certainty has never found me

in the cereal aisle,

holding Captain Crunch,

suddenly remembering

that everyone I have ever loved

was made from stardust,

hunger,

and a series of decisions

we probably should have slept on.

No.

It has always been awe.

Awe was the first church

.Before steeples.

Before committees.

Before men got involved

and started making rules about skirts.

Awe was there

with its wild hair

and muddy feet,

saying:

Look.

Look again.

Look until looking

becomes love.

Awe, and soup.

Awe, and someone rubbing your back

when you are sick

.

Awe, and old couples at Target

arguing gently about avocados,

as if marriage is not one vow

but ten thousand errands

performed beside the person

who knows exactly

how you like the cart pushed.

Maybe gratitude

was never meant to sound elegant.

Maybe gratitude sounds like:

“Damn.

That woodpecker is trying

to beat that tree from itself.”

Maybe gratitude sounds like:

“Thank you, body,

for continuing to drag me through this world

despite the many slim jims I have done to you

at gas stations.

”Maybe gratitude sounds like:

“Thank you to the dogs

who lose their entire minds

when we come home

as if we have returned from war

and not Walgreens.

”For me, that might be my gospel.

That joy that does not wait for us

to be impressive but only needs us

to come through the door.

Because the truth is,

this life is devastating.

And ridiculous.

One minute you are 22 and invincible,

driving too fast,

eating gas station nachos

with the confidence of a Greek god.

The next minute you are googling,

“Can sneezing cause a hamstring injury?”

and the answer is,

apparently,

“Welcome to the second half of your life.”

But even now—even tired,

even grieving,

even emotionally held together

by iced coffee, playlists,

and one very specific wolves hoodie—

we keep finding reasons

to stay soft.

We plant tomatoes

even though grief is real.

We bake bread

even though the news is on fire.

We send photos of the sky

to people we love

with captions like,

“LOOK,”

as if beauty is an emergency

and we are all volunteer firefighters.

We keep saying,

“You have to see this,

”because wonder

is the oldest form

of resurrection.

So here’s to the believers

and the atheists

and the agnostics

and the people whose entire theology

is just trying not to cry

in the DMV line.

Here’s to the people clinging to faith.

Here’s to the people clinging to Xanaxand oat milk

and the one group chat

where nobody pretends to be okay.

Here’s to the tender-hearted weirdos.

The accidental mystics.

The ones who can contemplate mortality

for six straight hours

and then become emotionally attached

to a perfect peach.

The ones who know

despair has a mouth,

but so does laughter.

May we never stop being drop-kicked by beauty

in the middle of a Sunday afternoon.

May we never become so polished

that we forget how to stand

in the Starbucks line of existence

with our dumb, gorgeous hearts open,

feeling the enormity of it all

rattle around in our bones

like thunder

looking for somewhere to laugh.

And may we remember:

whatever else this is,

whatever mess,

whatever miracle,

whatever cosmic group project

no one was prepped for—

all’ve it is astonishing.

that we are here.

that we have loved enough to be ruined.

that the moon keeps showing up.

that bread exists.

So pass it on.

Tear off a piece

with your bare hands.

Take it in as you take it down.

And then go outside and look at that moon.