Limitations?
Three pots of bee balm sitting on my front porch....looking very weary. They were offerings from a friend who knew I was herb gardening, or trying to, and I expressed an interest in the beautiful flowers of the bee balm. She immediately went to work digging up a couple of varieties from her own garden to give to me.
And for two days, they've sat on my front porch, shocked from their wrenching out of the ground, beckoning to me to find them a home. I thought near the woods would be a good place, within view of the house, of course, but where moisture would not be an issue (I really don't know if bee balm requires a lot of water). My legs have been semi-cooperative the last few dasy, and the rain wasn't due till this afternoon, so I figured I'd have plenty of time and help to put them into the ground.
My oldest son decided last night that he wanted to utilize the driver's permit he's had nearly a year. We went driving. After his insistence that he didn't want to send graduation announcements, we buckled under pressure from the aunties to let a few people know. I printed beautiful graduation announcements. My housekeeper, who had been having a few problems that last two days, had her husband call to tell me she was in the hospital. I'm alone today, but, hey, I can handle this, right?
I don't believe in limitations, at least not self-imposed ones. I didn't say, "I have no help to gather tools, dig a hole, drag the hose, so I can't do this." I looked at it. I got a new, beautiful, sturdy trowel for Mother's Day. Maybe that would work the ground. I also got a garden seat, which is a lifesaver for anyone with back and leg problems. So, I sat on my stool and started digging. I had a five gallon bucket to hold the dirt I was digging out. I chose a spot beside the steps of my front porch, and I'm thinking that may not have been an ideal spot, as I don't know how strong the allure of bee balm is on their buzzing namesake. But, hey, we have lots of bees. I walk through a wall of them to get into my shed, and in years my husband has been here (twelve before me), he swears he's never been stung. Neither have I. So, I now have attractants for butterflies, sparrows, humming birds, and bees on my porch. Maybe I should have saved room for people?
I dug the hole with the trowel, and the ground, which began as a tangled, weed-covered mess (our tractor is in the shop, and the boys made an executive decision that it would be silly to weed eat if we couldn't mow the grass...though how they got to be yard executives, I don't know), was surprisingly easy to work. I had to go to the shed, gingerly step through the buzzing veil, and get a 'perennial shovel' (another years-past Mother's Day gift). If you don't know what a perennial shovel is, well, it looks like a minature spade shovel, but, well, minature. Like a child's shovel, but sturdily built. I couldn't find it. Having waded through grass six or eight inches high to get to the shed, wondering how many bug bites I would have to tend later on, I began the search for my shovel. Now, about once a week, sometimes more, I hear my husband rattling around, mumbling to himself about some item or items that the kids have taken and not returned. The volume of his mumbling increases in proportion to his need for the item, the cost of the item, and the frequency of the item not being where it is supposed to be. I chide him about it, though usually only in my own head. He takes his stuff, and his rights to his stuff, very seriously, and any appropriation of his stuff is considered a violation of said rights to stuff. I have these issues, too (see post entitled, imagine? "Stuff"). I got a taste of my own medicine. The perennial shovel, which I have not used for years and years, but which should be haning right where I last saw it, with all the other garden tools, was not there.
Eventually, after ticking through the list of possible suspects in my head and sentencing them to hours and hours of hard labor for their crimes, I did find it. It was on the floor at the back of the shed, and it accompanied me back to my digging spot. To make a very long and boring story a little shorter, my bee balm is now firmly planted in the ground, and never mind that a woman with multiple muscular/skeletal/neurological conditions should not attempt to move a 5 gallon bucket of dirt. It's done.
I started out talking about limitations. Or thinking about limitations. The job took me over an hour. In my healthier days, it would have taken ten minutes. Had I still been in the wheel chair, would I have been unable to do it because of apparent limitations? No. I have four children. I have a husband who loves me. I even have hired help, well, most of the time. I also have lots of friends who garden who keep telling me that anytime I need help, just holler. So, yes, it would have gotten done, and had I taken one of the options listed, it would have been a lot easier and quicker to do. I said a little prayer before I started, and I accepted that whatever happened -- be it a breeze or be it seemingly beyond my ability -- it was okay. It was difficult, but I believe I had help. Doing difficult things helps me to think in limitless ways. Some may see it as willful and silly, but I see it as an excercise in faith. Knowing that I can do difficult things, things I shouldn't be able to do, increases my faith that whatever needs to be done, if I'm called to do it, I will have the strength to carry it through.
Bee balm. I'm allergic to bees. Oh, well. It's pretty.
Till later.....
And for two days, they've sat on my front porch, shocked from their wrenching out of the ground, beckoning to me to find them a home. I thought near the woods would be a good place, within view of the house, of course, but where moisture would not be an issue (I really don't know if bee balm requires a lot of water). My legs have been semi-cooperative the last few dasy, and the rain wasn't due till this afternoon, so I figured I'd have plenty of time and help to put them into the ground.
My oldest son decided last night that he wanted to utilize the driver's permit he's had nearly a year. We went driving. After his insistence that he didn't want to send graduation announcements, we buckled under pressure from the aunties to let a few people know. I printed beautiful graduation announcements. My housekeeper, who had been having a few problems that last two days, had her husband call to tell me she was in the hospital. I'm alone today, but, hey, I can handle this, right?
I don't believe in limitations, at least not self-imposed ones. I didn't say, "I have no help to gather tools, dig a hole, drag the hose, so I can't do this." I looked at it. I got a new, beautiful, sturdy trowel for Mother's Day. Maybe that would work the ground. I also got a garden seat, which is a lifesaver for anyone with back and leg problems. So, I sat on my stool and started digging. I had a five gallon bucket to hold the dirt I was digging out. I chose a spot beside the steps of my front porch, and I'm thinking that may not have been an ideal spot, as I don't know how strong the allure of bee balm is on their buzzing namesake. But, hey, we have lots of bees. I walk through a wall of them to get into my shed, and in years my husband has been here (twelve before me), he swears he's never been stung. Neither have I. So, I now have attractants for butterflies, sparrows, humming birds, and bees on my porch. Maybe I should have saved room for people?
I dug the hole with the trowel, and the ground, which began as a tangled, weed-covered mess (our tractor is in the shop, and the boys made an executive decision that it would be silly to weed eat if we couldn't mow the grass...though how they got to be yard executives, I don't know), was surprisingly easy to work. I had to go to the shed, gingerly step through the buzzing veil, and get a 'perennial shovel' (another years-past Mother's Day gift). If you don't know what a perennial shovel is, well, it looks like a minature spade shovel, but, well, minature. Like a child's shovel, but sturdily built. I couldn't find it. Having waded through grass six or eight inches high to get to the shed, wondering how many bug bites I would have to tend later on, I began the search for my shovel. Now, about once a week, sometimes more, I hear my husband rattling around, mumbling to himself about some item or items that the kids have taken and not returned. The volume of his mumbling increases in proportion to his need for the item, the cost of the item, and the frequency of the item not being where it is supposed to be. I chide him about it, though usually only in my own head. He takes his stuff, and his rights to his stuff, very seriously, and any appropriation of his stuff is considered a violation of said rights to stuff. I have these issues, too (see post entitled, imagine? "Stuff"). I got a taste of my own medicine. The perennial shovel, which I have not used for years and years, but which should be haning right where I last saw it, with all the other garden tools, was not there.
Eventually, after ticking through the list of possible suspects in my head and sentencing them to hours and hours of hard labor for their crimes, I did find it. It was on the floor at the back of the shed, and it accompanied me back to my digging spot. To make a very long and boring story a little shorter, my bee balm is now firmly planted in the ground, and never mind that a woman with multiple muscular/skeletal/neurological conditions should not attempt to move a 5 gallon bucket of dirt. It's done.
I started out talking about limitations. Or thinking about limitations. The job took me over an hour. In my healthier days, it would have taken ten minutes. Had I still been in the wheel chair, would I have been unable to do it because of apparent limitations? No. I have four children. I have a husband who loves me. I even have hired help, well, most of the time. I also have lots of friends who garden who keep telling me that anytime I need help, just holler. So, yes, it would have gotten done, and had I taken one of the options listed, it would have been a lot easier and quicker to do. I said a little prayer before I started, and I accepted that whatever happened -- be it a breeze or be it seemingly beyond my ability -- it was okay. It was difficult, but I believe I had help. Doing difficult things helps me to think in limitless ways. Some may see it as willful and silly, but I see it as an excercise in faith. Knowing that I can do difficult things, things I shouldn't be able to do, increases my faith that whatever needs to be done, if I'm called to do it, I will have the strength to carry it through.
Bee balm. I'm allergic to bees. Oh, well. It's pretty.
Till later.....
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