The Drenching of Well-Laid Plans

It was easy to get seduced.

After weeks of mild spring weather during which winter seemed far behind, we itched to get outside. The occasional showers more beckoned than interrupted; the growing season was drawing near.  Greenhouse seeding and tending have been underway since March, and though some of the results have disappointed, there is plenty of green bursting from plenty of trays.  The tomato plants are ready for transplanting into larger containers, and a few early season crops I giddily sowed in the garden ground.  In that annual definitive statement of seasonal progress I removed the snow chains from the tractor along with the snow blower attachment, and latched the mower deck in its place before taking an inaugural swipe through the already tall grass.  It was thoroughly spring, and before the garden claimed our attentions we set to work creating a new growing space anchored by more fruit trees and augmented with perennial vegetables and herbs.

I'll admit it:  we were feeling a little smug.  To be sure, there is major prep work to be done in the garden, firing up the new walk-behind tractor to redevelop the beds in those areas not currently occupied by garlic and wheat.  But everything was falling neatly into place and according to plan -- the seedlings neatly scheduled, the planting nonchalantly calendered.  Six seasons into this learning proposition we rather felt like we knew what we were doing.

And then the temperatures began to fall -- into the 30's and 40's through the breadth of this week -- and the rains returned in earnest-- 2.5" in the last 3 days alone.  The garden is a puddle, the chicken yard is a giant mud pie, the tractor sits idle in the barn, and the seed potatoes are sprouting in their bags.  The rain barrels are happily filled, but the rest of the gardening is at a standstill until...who knows when?

This, after everything had been so carefully staged.

We should know by now that we aren't in charge, and that no two years are the same.  Learning is, indeed, cumulative, but while last year's lessons will no doubt some day be applicable, this year will occasion its own unique education.  We have not lived this year before -- in the garden, or otherwise. 

And so we will pay attention, experiment, adapt, and learn.  Eventually we will plow and transplant and sow and tend, and with any luck at all, eventually harvest...

...something.  Maybe more, maybe less than in years before.  But it will all be in its own time, and in its own way.  And in the meantime, in the midst of all this mud, we will more honestly clothe ourselves in the reality of humility rather than the illusion of mastery.

And patiently accomplish what we can indoors...

...until another day.