Worked slavishly in the garden over the weekend. Three beds were built on Friday – some in driving rain. Two and a half on Saturday. I couldn’t move Sunday, just flopped around on a blanket in the shade with Clothilde while Ethan took over and built another three and a half.
Something about heaving the loaded wheelbarrow over the little bumps in the field is whole-body exhausting.
Also, I realized I use my arms very differently, despite how they are positioned on the handle of the pitchfork. I still favor my right side, even if I am technically forking with my left. At the end, I worked on moving differently, more evenly. It’s good to switch sides.
I know it will all be worth it when the melons are ready, when the first ripe tomatoes are hanging on the vines. This is the hard part, the part where everything is uncertain and unformed. It’s all still just a plan – harder than that, it’s a plan being made real. It’s the birth of a garden, the birth of our summer abundance. Labor. Hard work.
I like this movement of real life, the pragmatism, the dirt, the smells, the reality. Who needs a gym membership? Work is love made visible.
I realized something the other day. I was lifting an armful of hay from the cow’s bale to bring to the goats. Something about the dry, grassy aroma reminded me of dinner – steak, roast, beef. Then I realized it was because our beef tastes subtly like that hay.