The new year

Ray Dellinger on his Porch with Izzy, Courtesy of Jeannette Dellinger.

I have (like many other people I'm sure) entered into this new year with deep trepidation, not to mention a nice complimentary wave of depression. The turn of the year has become especially tough for me as I have leaned more and more into the work of gardening and maintaining the special roots and seeds of friends. It's the time when I have to start really thinking hard about what will go into the limited ground in my care. So many deserving little sleeping frozen gems. There's also many trees to prune, (perhaps others to graft) This year in particular, I also have the added weight of many un-started projects--between Bobby McMillon's papers and books, my South Arts Emerging Artist program, and also a long-time-coming CD. 

See, I both love the work of gardening, and also strangely dread the responsibility of caring for a garden. I also dread the disappointments and frustrations that seem to be largely absent from the oh-so-cultivated-and-perfect gardens that people share on instagram. Please, show me your errors, your messes, your mistakes. What "eyesore" is left out of frame? 

Today I made my way down to the lower garden, hoping against hope that a very special plant had pulled through--despite my rather poor care of them. This fall I had dug up a few roots of my dear friend Ray Dellinger's horseradish plants. They had always been there at his place beside the camper. A neat strip contained by mowing. I dug them up before the old place sold, determined to keep up a little connection between me and a dear friend taken by 2021 and Alzheimer's. But In my scattered state, I promptly forgot them for a week or more in the root cellar. I knew Horseradish to be survivors, but they looked terrible (and for the forty billionth time in my life I was furious with my absent-mindedness). But I hoped hard, put them in a tender hill in the bottom, and covered it with a blanket of straw. Nothing much happened after that despite this global weirdness warm, and I grieved losing another little part of Ray. 

Today, as we were moving an old chicken-coop-turned-tool-shed down to the lower garden. I risked a look at my little straw-covered row and was filled up with joy to find that every bit of root I stuck in the ground had sprouted a beautiful little fractal crown of horseradish.  I was reminded then of that sister emotion to grief, and close kin of Joy:

Wonder.  

And how good wonder-surprise-joy feels when it pours into those holes left by grief pouring out.  It is dangerous to love.  There's a grief-price you must be willing to pay.  I will let some of my plants down this year, bugs and varmits will eat others, tornado winds may rip through the holler again and flatten half my corn, and I may lose out on the seeds for something that just can't be replaced.  There's no seed catalog for the things I grow.  It hurts, it's embarrassing, and frustrating, but goodness is it worth it when those little sleepers burst through the clay and open up their arms.  And good food is just a healing thing.  They say hunger is the best spice.  But "I grew that" is damn delicious. 

So here's to wonder, joy, and grief.  Can't have one without the other.

And Jeannette, thank you so much for this picture, of Ray in his element with two of his favorite joys.  There's really not words to describe how grateful I am for it.