Dragonstar and I are thinking about our garden. The one I'm too lazy to tend. The one I'm inspired to create anyway.
Last year there seemed little point in planning -- let alone planting -- a garden, since we were renting this house and the owner had just informed us that he was going to move in and we had to leave. But then I gave him a bunch of money and took on a mortgage, and so this year things have changed. Most things. I suspect I'm still a lazy gardener, so I'm trying to take that into consideration.
It's a winnowing time, February, isn't it? I'm seeing it in my friends and in the recent posts on the blogs I read, a desire to release the extraneous, the uninspired, the oppressive, the unworkable. For my part, I passed up an opportunity to submit work to a big art exhibit, and I've stepped back from my involvement in a local arts co-op that is clearly in need of more than I can give it. After the in-breath of January, with its resolutions and words of the year and fresh assessments of what we might like to pursue in the coming months, comes the exhalation, the letting go of what no longer serves.
I don't know about you, but for me, that out-breath is harder. Letting go is more complicated than letting in. Releasing requires more than receiving. This sounds like the attachment that the Buddhists are always going on about -- that stickiness of accumulated stuff, mental and otherwise, that keeps us glued to routines and relationships and work and lives we no longer find satisfactory.
Things we thought we wanted. People we thought we were.
My vision of me as a gardener.
Still, I don't want to make too many assumptions, given that everything is connected to everything else. My lazy gardening, for example, might be nothing more than a reluctance to dig deep in someone else's yard. So we're going to give it another try this year, me and Dragonstar. She wants more herbs for her potion garden. Calendula and goldenseal and thyme.
Me, I want a grape arbor. And a fruit tree. Maybe two.