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January 16th 2010    Tim Candler

    Seed packets for the vegetable garden have arrived.  Best to enjoy them as though they were a pack of cards, rather than to think of rows and germination times and who will go where and why exactly is there a packet of what looks like Goats Beard and all those elements of 'perhaps' that can reduce a gardener to a gibbering wreck by around April 15th.

     And yesterday afternoon was a classic example of those premature behaviors that can so reduce 'being'.   I picked up the shovel, carried it to where Raspberry might one day grow.   I was far too happy at the prospect of a second chance to prepare this ground in plenty of time.   I strutted as those images of turned earth flipped through my imagination.  

     And I could hear the distant voice.  It was clear as a bell, echoing "you're an idiot" across the hill tops.  But in that moment I called myself magical, because I believed the universe would prove the distant voice incorrect.   I believed I could make this work, and I believed that by sunset the roots of grasses that creep would be exposed to the next killing frost and I could thereby more easily remove them from precious soil.

      Difficult to comprehend the enormity of three more months of these sorts of abject and inane moments in landscape while carrying hand tools.  

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