may day
April is gone without really feeling it, it was one of those months I sailed through almost numb, detached as a way to tackle the sheer volume of things in every possible corner of life. I lament this as Aprils in this area of the world are particularly spectacular with their violent weather: The clashing of two seasons each so powerful, wondering which will take the lead, wondering how many extra innings will be recorded.
It’s my favorite combination of colors — hills just beginning to turn green, the softest green, so light and delicate yet when draped over land that extends in every direction, anything but delicate and all potent. The skies storm so they’re every perfect hue of blue and grey your heart could ever dream of. These green rolling hills then crash into dark blue mountains that are covered in thick, thick blankets of pure white on peaks that intermingle with the heavens themselves.
Three days ago it poured rain and then it snowed and suddenly the river was rising and suddenly it was feet higher and rushing and I felt the tension grip my body. “That’s PTSD,” said John. “You’re probably going to have that forever,” he reminded me as we watched the waves form, even though it’ll be four summers since the flood overtook our lives.
The beds I prepped a few weeks ago and even though some brave baby kales we stuck in the ground on an uncharacteristic February day have popped their heads yesterday was the day I truly began: The day Wilder and I spend too much money at the nursery and pretend growing food in this place is anything but hard. I’ve stopped planting things we won’t eat and instead plant only what makes me happy; leafy greens, peas, strawberries, squash, pumpkins, broccolis, herbs. I’ve started ignoring the first and last frost dates and instead plant when I feel like it, when it’s risky and not guaranteed, as if anything could be.
An ex-lover wanted to be a farmer for a while so he pulled up all the sod in our entire yard and planted loads and little came up. I’m not sure why, it was Kigali and feels like it should have worked but I wasn’t paying attention. Soon we moved to the Garden State because he decided he Really Wanted to Be a Farmer and there we were on a small organic farm in the middle of millionaires’ horse ranches and he learned how and I tried to but I don’t like being told anything and then it was over. Now he’s a nurse and I am the one obsessed with growing food.
At first I was worried I had to to give him credit but when I walked on my grandmother’s island the color of the soil was so unbelievably rich it sang just as loud as the ocean, just as strong as the mountain. Every house had a messy mop of vegetable garden — kale, pumpkins, beans — all weaving their growth in and around and on top of each other. Here was the answer: Growing was in my blood; eating hardy vegetables was part of my DNA; budding through rocky terrain while storms wreak havoc was nothing new.
Surveying our cousin’s gourd harvest on Pico.
James recently asked me about my creative process and I had no good answers for him, in fact I drew only blanks. I can’t make time to write and when I do it doesn’t come. But god when I don’t how it flows. It is when with trays full of seedlings I pull out my phone and write the words down. Half soaked because of a three year old with a hose and shivering because April they come again and can I get them out fast enough or are my fingers too wet for the technology to work? As the light stretches later and later into the night and Wilder and I in the garden forget about dinner I listen to the persistent red winged blackbirds who have declared our home the center of their universe and still the words won’t stop their torrent and overcome the din.
My great-great-grandmother’s fig trees in front of the mountain.
And so every year at this time I ignite faith that the seeds I plant will grow and every year they do. It’s how they will grow I can’t predict, and it is only the welcoming of May that ends the game of April.