A way of coping

I've had the craziest few weeks, lately. My dishwasher broke, my mobile phone died and my credit card has been replaced twice, due to fraud. The second time, I didn't realise my bank had cancelled the card, and ended up in one of those awkward situations, where you can't pay for what you've spent an hour, shopping for - and absolutely need!

So when most of that drama is put behind me, I go find some relief and peace in my garden. Even when it hasn't rained for a while, and looks like its teetering on the edge of death, it's still a reassuring place to visit. Because there are echoes of my hand at work, still there, pushing through the lull. It reminds me things are still happening, when it seems like the rest of my world is upside down.

The lemon grass is re-shooting again. Fresh and deliciously green, against a background of brown. The former stalks were slashed down and left to mulch the footpath. I did this when there were rumours of rain. When the rain did finally arrive, there was much less than predicted. By slashing the lemon grass ahead of time though, I preserved the moisture, which did fall.

Some tasks really show their fruits, only when the timing is right.

Then, there is the pear tree, I resurrected from the weeds. I pruned its branches back too, so it can focus its new growth on less. Today, I added to the mulch I laid down previously, with fresh, pigeon pea leafs and branches. It looked like a patchwork quilt, sewn together, only when the material was ready.

I was feeding the peas themselves to the chickens, and they needed time to fill out their pods. Having stripped the trees bear now however, it was time to cut everything back. Not just for the benefit of mulching the nearby pear tree, but also, for the pigeon pea itself.

Growth is slower in winter. Much slower. But once the branches are cut back, they seem to burst with renewed vigour. New leaves, for new flowers, that will produce pods to feed the chickens again. No doubt, the brush turkeys too.

Cutting back, really does renew things. I take that thought into my mind, as if its a worthy thing to transplant elsewhere in my life. Maybe it will bear fruit another time.

Right now though, I look at the large branches left on the ground, that we collected from fallen trees. I broke them up, piece by piece. Clearing the yard of debris, and placing them under the trees. It's taken many months. I started in autumn, and here I am again, in winter - repeating the same process.

For there is always debris, where new growth is forming. I don't always appreciate this in my other duties in life, but my garden never fails to remind me. It's there every year, and every day. I just have to step into it and forget everything else happening around me.

Then there is our rescued cat, from her feral mother - reminding me, its not where you come from, but where you are, that can be embraced. She always sits on the pallet, watching me - or perhaps to position herself at eye level. So I might run a hand down her back, or just lean forwards, and kiss the top of her nose.

She's not the biggest fan of personal contact, but she does appreciate brief encounters of affection. Don't we all.

I found mine in the garden today, embraced by all those cycles - the lull of waiting, and the drama of cutting back. The repeated cycles. Knowing we're all kind of rescued by nature, aren't we?