The Great and Patient Alchemy

There is something intimidating about a blank page.  It is complete openness; perfect opportunity -- but there are no lines, no givens, no parameters within which to narrow choices.  Anything is possible, and therefore everything is on the table.  It certainly isn't the wide open expanse of possibility onto which God looked out in the beginning of all things -- that messy chaos and void that the Hebrews knew poetically as "tohu-wa-vohu"; there are, after all, trees already growing, deer already roaming, grass waving in the breeze, and bluebirds and butterflies fluttering through -- but it is my chaos, and responsibility of imprinting some particular order is no small stewardship.

The process, then, begins by making choices; but according to what?

That is the wonder of creating a garden.  If, as in my case, one doesn't intend to cultivate it all, which particular section will be chosen -- and why?  Surely drainage issues would be one factor.  Proximity may well be another.  Access to water quickly emerges as a priority, as does openness to sun.  And how big?  What is the "enough" beyond which becomes "too much"?

We had added rain barrels to harvest rainwater off the garden shed out back, and so these water sources became the anchor of the southwest corner.  A more careful examination of the field revealed a juvenile oak tree that could serve as the southeastly point.  A few years down the road, assuming the tree's continuing growth, will mean shifting the space away from its shade, but for now it won't interfere.  Stepping off a comparable distant north from both points suggested a rough 60' X 60' outline.

The U.S. Geological Soil Survey indicates that the land is mostly Ladoga Silt Loam, but exactly what that means I have yet to comprehend.  I suspect it isn't the finest soil around, but a knowledgeable friend reassures me that it isn't the worst.  Currently covered in prairie grasses, I have mowed out the garden plot and intend to prepare the soil for springtime by enriching it over the winter with compost and manure and a few other organic tricks I have been reading about if I can beat the coming freezes.

The garden, I know, will never be more perfect that it is right now -- fertile and productive and safe within the confines of my imagination.  But we didn't move out here to enjoy an imaginary garden, and so the dirty but gloriously evocative work begins:  the great and patient alchemy of soil and worm, rain and sun, seed and weed and hoe and -- with any luck -- harvest.