![]() ![]() It was good hard work, and I was very bad at it, although I tried. ![]() When I was younger and lived in Brooklyn in zone 7b, I worked as a landscaper. This would be my entire afternoon and then some, if it weren’t for my other work, the work that pays the bank who owns the land that the garden is on. For example, as I write this it is late October, and where I live in Los Angeles, in plant hardiness zone 10b, my passion fruits are plunking to the ground and need to be collected and preserved, the peach tree must be cut back, the artichoke divided, the Brugmansia fed, the drip irrigation reset for winter, the bay leaves dried, the radishes, kale, broccoli, and fava bean seeds sowed. In your little patch of dirt there are also obligations-endless obligations-to attend to. By extension, this fiscal year I’ve spent more money on milkweed, terracotta pots, worm castings, etc., than I’ve earned, money that would only make it to my LLC if I quit mucking around in the planting beds and hunkered down at the computer to fulfill my obligations.Īny gardener would understand. I spend more time in my garden than at my desk. The truth is, I didn’t accidentally prioritize the garden over paid work, and if given a do-over, I’d make the same choices, only this time I wouldn’t overplant the tomatoes. To his ears I’m confessing a fiduciary misstep, like investing in a time-share. ![]() My husband, the budget balancer, hates when I say this. Contractually, my book Adult Drama was meant to be finished years ago, and it may well have been, if not for my garden. ![]()
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