Growing vegetables, herbs, etc. in a small urban space
Last year I decided to bring this murti of Kuan Yin outside. I asked my neighbor if it was ok, as her parents came here from China, . My neighbor welcomed this presence in the space between our yards and also appreciated that I asked.
Last Monday I had the honor and delight to be invited to a multigenerational dinner of homemade dumplings at a neighbor’s house.
I was told it was customary for guests to shape a share of the dumplings; the hosts do everything else. As I have not grown up making dumplings as part of group family activity, that meant I needed first to be shown what to do with the already made dough and filling.
Skills used to make homemade noodles, tortillas, and pizza helped make dumpling shaping an accessible activity. It was tricky at first. Two people were showing me two different ways, which was somewhat confusing in an enjoyable way, and helped emphasize that for friendly dumpling making, ultimately, everyone needs to find their own method that works for them. Also, as with many hand skills, because it was the first first time I was being shown, I was simultaneously transposing it from right to left-handed.
It only took two tries to get a dumpling that wouldn’t explode in the pot and lose its filling. It took several more to make one that had nice pleats and blended in with the rest.
We had an interesting discussion about the difference between learning by eating several variations and then reading several recipes and then trying to replicate a version that resembled what I had eaten prepared by someone who learned from childhood as part of a multigenerational group process.
I have long contemplated, and continue to do so, how my comfort in learning anything from a book and then seeing if I can do it or something like it, has shaped my meditation and movement practices.
It’s pretty easy to see which dumplings I made. No difference in taste. I was also happy to contribute garlic chives from the garden.
It took focused and intentional removal and destruction of the burgeoning weeds to reveal and give space to grow the exquisite asparagus.
Yesterday was the first day of the season working in the youth garden at the National Arboretum. Something made me look up. A bald eagle perhaps 40-50 feet overhead before soaring higher. “Look; follow my finger,” I called to my fellow gardeners, pointing to where the great bird was flying. They all looked up, and we shared a moment of awe.
“What made me notice?” one of my companions asked. I could not say exactly. I could have seen it’s shadow or perhaps even, without hearing it well enough to identify the sound, heard the wind in the eagle’s feathers. Or perhaps just instinct.
For a garden to thrive, it takes planning, knowledge/study, and engagement. To still find joy in it, one must also surrender to the vagaries out of our control. Sure enough, every year, with variations in weather and seed/root/plant stock, some things will be especially prolific, and others —perhaps our favorites—will fail despite best efforts.
What is optimal with our diet, exercise, and practice, depends on where we are in life.
The meadow ablaze with yellow flowers. Wild color the harbinger of changing seasons.
In the late afternoon, after it did not really rain again in this pocket of the DMV, I went out in the garden to get fresh herbs and greens to go with tomatoes picked earlier in the day. This was what the clouds were doing. I was called to pause and, with awe and appreciation, observe.
