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sharing a Barcelona Urban garden

Sometimes there's nothing you can do

My heart hurts today. And I seek solace in the garden. And I see how imperfect my garden is, lavender plants lovingly started by seed withered by the August sun, yellowing leaves threatening my sweet pumpkin even as it starts to turn orange, valiant fig tree bringing out new leaves for the third time this year, raspberries that once seemed so promising now shriveled up, never to ripen after all.  

My garden is not neat. There are weeds, broken pots, bits of netting, wilted flowers, and dying plants. It is a fair bit like my life. I am suspicious of things that are too organized, too clean, too structured. I worry that too much time has been spent following other people's rules about how things should be, when what I really like to do is observe the world the way it is, and let it grow its own way. That is why I love and encourage volunteers and uninvited visitors. It reminds me that I can't control everything, that life has a way of bringing you surprises, and that keeping your eyes open, choosing which volunteers and visitors you let stay, and which ones you weed out, is the essence of leading one's life.

My heart hurts today because sometimes there is no solution. Sometimes no matter how much compost you add, or bugs you pick off, or sun or shade you provide, or companion plants you put close by, or garlic and nettles with potassium soap you spray, there is nothing to do. And it's ok to cry and to mourn the hopes and raspberries that never sweetened.

And only then can you see the strawberry babies that are happy in their new bed, the volunteer cosmos on their second round of flowering, the striving morning glories that insist that every day there will be new blossoms, and you know that death is a kind of gift that makes every day important.
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