At this point in my life, I regularly council myself, and anyone else who will listen, that I have removed stress from my life. This includes giving a care about what others may think about me...after all, if my standards are met, by implication, I've done my best and can do no more. The problem with this idea, is that my standards are often higher than my resources and capabilities permit. I can make my plan and work my plan until the cows come home, but if it rains, or my garden help can't come, or my back gives out, my plans are laid to waste, like so much detritus on the compost heap. All of these things occurred as I prepared for my first garden group meeting and design workshop in my garden this week.
We as a group preach the same sermon...we're old enough to do whatever we want, and bold enough to do it. Cool. We can break the rules, we made them. We can "just say no" to social impositions or babysitting with unruly grandchildren we cannot spank. We can glory in our new-found freedom from timecards and alarm clocks. But what the hell do we do about the weeds that torment our paths when we cannot bend down to pluck them? What about the slug-eaten ligularia leaves we meant to cut? And then there's that pile of gravel in the driveway that will be there until the end of days if Pedro doesn't come to move it for you.
I was mortified that the north path was lined with all the potted plants that I pulled from the north border to figure out their final planting place...and didn't plant them. I wrung my hands because I didn't move the experimental baobab trees back to the garden hot spot where I could attempt to give them away to my parting guests. I was distressed that my "workshop" and garden tour was completely unmanageable with twenty avid gardeners asking questions all at once.
But, you know, I am ecstatic that the common rudbeckias and asters and cosmos made a fine late summer display in the Long Border, the solitary artichoke stood up to be counted, along with the five little 'Liberty' apples and the two (count them, two) 'Desert King' figs, and the tomatoes in the potager looked so fine, ripening on their bamboo structures. I am pleased that we could wiggle our toes in the cool, green, drought tolerant dwarf fescue that I didn't water all summer. And my friends went home chattering like magpies about all the progress I've made, as they clutched their "garden note" (a botanical arrangement from garden gleanings), inspired by my workshop.
So I've worked this out on paper...now I'm on my way into mon paradis for the real deal...no stress.
