Broken Stems and Resolute Spirits Chastened by Mother Nature

On the way home from school one day shortly after moving to Des Moines my son was set upon by a handful of tougher classmates.  Perhaps it had to do with his accent that sounded bizarrely out of place.  Perhaps it was his clothes that reflected a different culture's sense of style.  Perhaps it had to do with his becoming a link in a chain of friendships they didn't feel he belonged.  Whatever, he arrived home late with a few bruises, some torn clothes, and a demoralized spirit.  It was heartbreaking.  The injuries were superficial, but the affront was severe.  First frightened, then angry, we quickly became over-protective -- thrashing about for some kind of bullet-proofing bubble.

Those hours came to mind Tuesday morning as Lori and I surveyed the garden following the previous afternoon's storm.  Black as night at 2 pm, the rains had hammered hard -- two inches in an hour -- the hail had peppered, and the winds -- hurricane force according to the National Weather Service -- had blown.  It was not a good combination for a garden swelling with promise and green fruit.  Walking among the rows we found broken stems, shredded leaves, scattered baby tomatoes, and once-proud stalks sadly horizontal.  It looked like a Civil War battlefield the day after combat.  Anger, heartbreak, a sense of helpless resignation, I wondered what among the carnage might revive.  That, and of course that over-protective reflex.  Having already raised a deer fence reinforced against rabbits, I couldn't help but wonder what additional precautionary measures might be available.  Perhaps some horticulture version of a bullet-proof vest.

In the end we simply got down on our knees and pulled weeds and encroaching grass.  It felt like care-taking.  It wouldn't repair any of the brokenness, but at least we could make the injured more comfortable.  That, and allow ourselves to steep in the reality that we can only do what we can do in the face of all those other eventualities about which we can finally do nothing.  As Lori likes to note, "this is, after all, nature."  Wild, capricious, sometimes-nourishing, sometimes-dismantling, always-humbling nature -- a grace and a force of which we are not in charge.