I planted on Lughnasadh. I planted okra and I planted pumpkins. I planted aubergines. And in no more than four days’ time, there were sprouts. And after a week, one week, they were four inches tall. That’s some magic for you.
What makes me marvel most, though, is that for large projects around the house, I drag my heels; they are start-stop-start affairs. My garden? It doesn’t matter how huge or outlandish the project, I simply do it, in pieces if necessary given my tight schedules these days, and the world feels a better place when I’m out in the dirt and weeds and plants. That, too, is a kind of magic. It’s a magic akin to renewal, and my pantheon has a place for words and history, truth and lies, stimulants and geekery– but not yet one for the green growy things of the earth.
I will sit by my garden-goyle and wait, today. I will absently weed my late-planted tomatoes. And I will ask to know what garden Gods guide the forces of my plant beds, the vast expanse of Myakka prairie, the tunnels of rhododendron of Tennessee. Demeter/Ceres doesn’t fit, for the garden is a wilder place than people give credit. Pan does not play well with Caffeina and Triceratops. I will wait until I see a vision of soil-stained hands and hiking boots. I will wait until the tree roots encircle my heart, until the river, tannin-brown, brings to me leaves from a book I cannot read. Then, I will know. Then, I will know.