The Fine Art of Gardening

After digging down four inches and planting tulip bulbs, I rue the day we selected packets and packets of bulbs. Did I expect that they would plant themselves? Our soil is filled with rocks ranging from pebble size to rocks that have illusions of being little boulders. We did find a cracked dish and a top of a ceramic dish-- neither find is worthy of exciting anyone with a yen to mine garbage heaps of yesteryear.

Our neighbor loves planting, dividing plants, growing flowers from seed, acting like the sower in Millet's painting. I love the idea of looking at beautiful plants, flowers for every season, shrubs that grow at dizzying rates-- but I'm not a gardener. It isn't as if I abhor dirt, but my body doesn't care for all the "gardener" positions. I'd rather take a macro photograph of the innards of a flower.

Perhaps if the soil was accommodating and I knew what I was doing, I'd change my mind. Gardening is an art. And I may remain as one who appreciates rather than one who plants.

There are still thirty bulbs left to plant. I'm going to try and approach the task with an eye to next spring. Who knows I may find some treasures. I've started to collect the rocks and the cracked part of a dish as well as the ceramic cover.

 I think if I approach the digging as an archaeological endeavor...