Marigolds Everywhere

'This is a conspiracy!,' the typewriter-printed tag proclaims.  'We are conspiring the cover the city with marigolds.'  That's right- those dusty trash-laden squares of earth that poke through the long avenues of concrete will soon be bursting joyously into oranges and golds.  If it rains, that is.  And if we can recruit enough co-conspirators.

Our new ammunition may help.  I spent Sunday making seed bombs with the founders of the conspiracy - a due I met in India on Mojo Plantation, and an old friend from Philly.  Fueled by home-brewed dandelion wine, we patted out circles of red clay, sprinkled a dash of seed starting mix and then layered on a healthy dose of seeds, finally squeezing the clay shut around the treasure inside.  These brown beauties will be handed out/sold for a pittance this weekend at the Trenton Avenue Arts Festival, and will certainly explode into at least a couple conspiratory buds each.

The idea?  Keep a few of these miniature potatoes with you at all times, so you can be ready to launch them toward the next sad piece of bald city earth.  The next time it rains, you may see a spear of hopeful green shooting through.

Grateful

I live in the city now, but I have a country life.  I hike along a creek at least once a day.  I weed my garden a few times a week.  I am experimenting with seed swaps and growing raspberry bushes and coming home early on Friday nights.  I have to say, it’s been great.  Add to that my awesome new job, and honestly I feel a little like I’ve struck gold.  It’s exciting to be delving incredibly deep into work that is engaging both intellectually and socially.  The best part is, it’s in my own community, not in some remote rainforest in which I have little connection.  I seem to have lost my travel bug, at least temporarily.

I apologize for writing a recap post after disappearing for so long.  It feels necessary, given the drastic transitions life has offered up in the past few months.  In order to move forward and start writing about the really interesting stuff (snap peas popping out of the ground!  CAFOs in Pennsylvania!  Training Belle to be a good dog!), I need to step back a minute and see what has happened to my life.

Belle, sitting on a seed tray (bad dog!)

Matt and I moved to Mount Airy.  Technically we live in Philadelphia, but to me it’s a retreat every day.  Our two-bedroom walkup with fenced-in yard is home to a few new raised beds ready to burst with strawberries, spinach, and summer squash.  After the damp and musty room we shared in India, with bathroom full of geckos and the occasional errant leech, this is practically a vacation home. 

We adopted a dog.  We started jobs.  We built a compost tumbler.  We struggle to fit all of the things we want to do into seven short days every week.

At work, I get to think about the effect that a millennium-old shale deposit deep under Pennsylvania could have on the forests I love, the water I drink, and the small town communities that make my state what it is.  I get to talk politics and motivate people who think they don’t care about an issue to get off their high horse of pessimism, even if it just means taking thirty seconds to write a letter.  These things are so much easier when you speak the same language as the people you’re working with.

Mid-May strawberries

I am beginning to find the balance I’ve been searching for, between urban stimulation, rejuvenation in nature, and, ultimately, self-sufficiency.  Now that I’m back into a busy schedule, with work and school and various side commitments, I’ve become a bit more realistic about that last goal.  I squeeze in yogurt making on a Saturday morning when I know I’ll be home in the afternoon.  We got a bread machine.  I miss the warmth of fresh dough under my hands, but at least we have fresh homemade bread every week.  These are the compromises you make to find balance amongst all the various things you love.  And when that happens, there’s nothing left to do but feel deeply grateful.