MORE GARDEN THOUGHTS

I last posted here in June and wrote about my tendency to have incredibly clever ideas for writing while I was planting and weeding in my backyard garden. I lamented that as soon as I stepped inside, those ideas vanished before I could sit down at my laptop or even make a quick note on paper. Summer's drawing to a close and now I'm reaping tomatoes and argula and and summer squash and kale--and, of course, still weeding.

Tomatoes, fresh from my garden. 

I'm also reaping ideas while gardening, but they seem to be more remembrances than the creation of something new. I've just finished a massive revision of THE PRIVATE WARS OF G. P. CALLAHAN and so am on a writing furlough for the moment. My gardening thoughts have turned to memories of friends and loved ones. People dear to me, important to me, some of whom I haven't called or emailed for too long a time.

My garden thoughts fly away.

While pulling weeds, I remember the past and make a promise to myself that I'll drop an old friend a line, or email a sister-in-law, or give an elderly friend from church a call. But, like my writing ideas, those promises seem to fly away before I step inside my home.




Why does this happen? I'm not sure. Could be that the duties of my "inside" life crowd away any thoughts I had in the sunshine. Could be that my attention span is way too short. Or maybe my brain can't handle more than one thought at
a time. Surely it's not because I'm growing old!

I once told a friend that, although I hadn't called for a while, I often thought of her. She assured me that she believes that whenever we think of someone, it's a blessing for that person. It's as if we're offering a prayer for her, even though she may never know it. I find that comforting. This summer I've prayed for lots of people! Amen.

The Missing Spatula

How is it that a vital kitchen tool can disappear overnight? Last night, ready to turn the tilapia fillets browning in a non-stick skillet, I searched the utensil drawer for the spatula designed for non-stick surfaces. Not there, nor in any drawer in the kitchen. Not in the dishwasher. Not in the freezer (where occasionally missing objects turn up). Using a metal tool, I carefully turned the fillets, now somewhat browner than I had intended, and went on with dinner preparations.

Since then, Peter and I have done an exhaustive search of the kitchen with no luck. Did our errant tool get boxed up with the Christmas decorations? Or did it just disappear into an alternate universe inhabited by single socks, lost books, missing earrings, and misplaced bank statements? And, if so, will it return before I spend money to replace it?

When more elusive things disappear--a memory of a person, event, or place, for instance--I find that simply relaxing and letting go works. If I let my mind move on, the memory soon pops into my awareness. Seeking, searching, looking for something lost is not always the best approach. Sometimes it's best just to wait.