Summer Gardening

Gardening: A Person’s Quest for Eden

By Ruth Tindugan

It’s the first Monday of July.

Weeks ago, Spring had already reclaimed my backyard from the onslaught of Winter’s dominion. Released from dormancy, the rule of color is fully enforced and flounted. Here and there, orange poppies, blue iris, magenta purslane, and pink bougainvilleas sway in the air like triumphant banners. Purple and white daisies, fuchsia geraniums, and yellow trailing gazanias sway close to the ground, dancing to the tune of the earth, unheard by mortals. The scent of ripening peach and plum mingle in the air like a blend of sweet tea.

It’s already summer, and my backyard looks rich and luscious.

But the weeds, the scourge of a garden, remain defiant. The shrubs scream for trimming, and potted plants that have outgrown their container call for transfer. Over crowding does not a garden make.

So, with a wide-brimmed hat, I step out for my outdoor gym.

I squat and pull, reach and cut, bend and gather, walk and carry, stand and lift, drag and push, dig and bury. Over and over, until my face is wet with sweat, and the corners of my mouth tastes salt, and my right thumb and pointer fingers protrude out of the vinyl gloves that kept thorns and thistles away from my hands and arms.

(I planned to do this in June when my piano teaching at a school ended. But what I thought was allergy symptoms in May had progressed into pneumonia. I am never sick. Not even the flu. I don’t remember being on antibiotics in my life. Six weeks later, I knew I’ve recovered when I vaccumed the living room without panting. But I lost yard time when the ground was still soft, and the sun was still kind at noon).

After six hours, the big, green bin provided by the city for green waste is teeming with unwanted greens. Severed from its life source, these will wilt and brown. The trash truck will pick it up outside my house. There is a dumping ground for these cuttings outside the city that nobody visits.

I gather my tools and place the spade and rake leaning against the old shed. Beside them stands a small bin for the hand shovel, pruning shears, clipper, and a serrated knife. (I use it as a saw sometimes). Empty pots sit on the other out-side of the shed, adjacent to the persimmon tree.

I drink water.

I walk around and survey the work of my hands.

In the absence of weeds, there’s space for the eyes to rest. Trimmed and thinned, the shrubs by the fence look content. The plants transferred from the pots to the ground appear robust. I aligned the perennials — pink geraniums between green, fortnight lilies by the fence. I created design and order by separating and grouping in kind and color.

I am pleased.

Twenty-five years ago, except for three trees — almond, apricot, and persimmon, this part of the backyard was a gray lake of gravel, and drainage-size stones. Un-walkable with bare feet.

I am not a gardener. I am a musician by profession. I teach piano, I am an organist in a church.
My hands used to be delicate and soft. Not anymore.

(To be continued).