Detachment

As you can probably tell from my lack of posts for the past couple of months, I’m losing my emotional involvement with my yard. Usually spring offers plenty of gardening photo opportunities, but lately I tend to just look and pass on by rather than document the beauties I see. Oh, I’m still doing the yard work, still waiting to see what blooms, still taking some pictures, but I’m doing so at a degree or two of separation. I’m not exactly sure why I started losing my enthusiasm. Perhaps because of the difficulty of keeping things green and blooming in this dry and sometimes harsh environment. Perhaps of a general feeling of detachment from life and a sense of the passing years. Perhaps because of . . . who knows.

Oddly, even though it hasn’t been that hot compared to previous springs — we’re just now getting up into the 90s — and even though I’ve been keeping up with the watering, the sun is so intense that the grass is already burning and flowering plants are wilting. I feel as if I should care, but I don’t, not really. Or maybe it’s that I don’t want to care. It does take a lot out of a person to plant flowers and greenery and tend them only to watch them struggle.

In a way, it’s not that big of a deal. I can replant grass and flowers and other vegetation. Or I can plant something else in the place of plants that don’t make it. For example, I had one large swath of grass left from the original sod I’d put in, but half of it died over the winter. (Which is odd in itself since all the rest died in the summer heat.) I couldn’t decide whether to replant the grass come fall or plant something else. In the end, I planted wildflowers instead of leaving the dead grass, and if I decide I want the grass, well, autumn (the best time to plant grass around here) is still a long way away. For another example, half of my ice plant that has spread so rapidly over the years also died in the winter, but I was able to replant.

So, not a big deal, but still . . .

I make it sound as if my garden is failing, but the truth is, it was prettier this spring than ever before.

Plenty of flowers planted themselves, such as the red poppies, and the larkspur. Other plants spread nicely. And some not so nicely. (I try to stay away from flowers that take over, but that’s not always easy to control since what should grow here doesn’t always and what shouldn’t sometimes does.)

This is always a rather unpretty time of year, which adds to my disinterest. The summer flowers haven’t yet budded. The larkspur is finished flowering but hasn’t yet gone to seed, so it makes the garden look rather drab. Once the larkspur and other self-planted annuals are finished, I can then replant so that August and September will be nice, but now it’s just a matter of keeping the yard — and me — going.

It’s funny — I waited all winter for this and now?

I’ve been sitting here thinking, wondering about that “and now?” and I have no response to that.

I have a hunch that once we settle into summer, I’ll be okay. Hot, but okay. There’s been just way too many weather changes lately to suit my poor aging mind and body — cloudiness and humidity and sprinkles of rain followed rapidly by sun and heat and then a repeat of the cycle.