“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
- Emily Dickenson
I've been planting seeds. There's something particularly hopeful about planting seeds. Flower seeds in particular are a sort of frivolity, a belief that needless beauty is worth effort. They also tend to perform, adding whimsy and delight. Vegetable seeds are another story. They are an interesting exercise in faith, because experience has taught me that if a useful plant can find a way to develop a disease, wilt, be attacked by squirrels, or otherwise spoil its fruit and/or die, it will. Or, just for variety, it will produce tons of wonderful vegetables.
I keep trying to connive strategies where my plants will produce, and I will therefore, as a gardener, win. I've tried multiple styles of pot or planting location, variety specific fertilizers, various watering strategies, etc. I stop short of pesticides and herbicides, as putting poison on my plants worries me. However, in the end, it's totally beyond my control. I have to sit back and recieve what my plants and the Good Lord see fit to give me.
About the pictures:
I took these pictures a couple of days before Christmas. I knew I'd post them eventually, but I've been remarkably lazy about posting recently. So I let them sit in a file on my computer and looked at them occasionally. Gradually, they became associated in my head with the above poem by Emily Dickenson. The beginning of this year has been grey, and hard for me. Both the pictures and the poem have done me good.
I hope they do you good as well.
