Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

I spent three hours weeding today; and it was a rather satisfying, although humbling, experience. It made me realize that, no matter how organized the gardener is, she cannot depend on weather.

I started the spring growing season high with expectations. I’d done extra preparation last fall; planted additional bulbs; weeded; fertilized; and prayed through the winter. I looked forward to a yard filled with the best flower offerings, each vying to outbloom the others.

Instead my day lilies struggled to provide one set of blooms instead of the usual summer-long carpet of yellow; my daisies did likewise. The shrub roses eked out more than one flowering, but I could tell it was an effort. The astilbe languished, the sedum settled for little output, the lamb’s ear whimpered, and the roses let me know they were unhappy.

So I guess before I start mentally bragging about my wonderful yard, I need to make sure Mother Nature is on board. Otherwise, it’s all a dream in my head. Except for the weeds that grow under any conditions.

I feel humbled for my lack of control, in spite of my eager preparations.