Coping With Darkness

The garden is getting drowsy. Soon it will sleep under a blanket of snow. The soil has been augmented with whatever organic material at hand and little critters such as earwigs and earthworms are still rather close to the surface, eating and excreting. The garter snakes are already snoozing. The squirrels are busy digging holes in the lawn to bury winter eats. The cats are getting fat and furry. Most of the birds in The Garden of Nemesis are regulars who will entertain us at the feeders all winter. It is dark.

BIRDS NEST TREE IN "ONE TREE GARDEN"

 It is the darkness, the lack of sunlight, that places the burden of lethargy upon my body. My metabolism slows down and I crave fats and sugar to convert to fat. I want hot chocolate. I want to sleep, to hibernate. That’s fine for the young, but for us older folks, to stop, even temporarily, is to seize up. I must retrieve my yoga mat. And get out my sculpting materials and tools. 

 I only sculpt in the dark of winter. When the days get longer again and the snow melts and I can see that the tulips and daffodils are sending up shoots through the soil, I begin to wrap up that particular type of art. Usually by this time in the spring I have the bedding plants underway, and their care is all-consuming. For a small donation, my friends contract with me to start their future gardens. My little gas range holds cookie sheets filled with germinating seeds. After they poke through the soil, they’re moved to the enclosed porch to sunbathe. I’ve discovered that starting plants inside is as much an art as sculpting; an art that takes dedication and finesse.

The little seedlings are much like human infants in they can’t always tell you what they need, you must anticipate their requirements. If they are too wet or too dry, or don’t get enough light, they may end up in the compost. Not only that, but one must also plan far ahead for the exact plants that may be needed. I always end up donating leftovers to the neighborhood food bank. I have been known to crowd in a few of these babies that were not in my original plan. This year it was celery and cucumbers.

The first two bush cucumber plants I set out early sickened and died. On the other hand, the two latecomers I had reluctantly stuck in a corner produced bushels of cukes, which were spread around the neighborhood for salads, pickling and juicing. I even froze Ziplocks filled with the blended nectar of cukes. I retrieved a bag the other day and used its contents in a slushy apple drink. Just thinking of the miracle of germination and nurturing those small green sprigs of life, well, it lifts my spirits in the dark days of winter.