the first day of spring

34 degrees, overcast with frequent sunbreaks
wind, 20 mph
44% humidity

It is the first day of spring. Potential is in the air, despite the chilly rattling of the windows. The daffodils are up, their yellow heads still tightly wound and waiting. A few errant snowdrops have found their way into a pile of overturned sod from last year. Persistent mint is already leafing at the edges of its enclosure; oh, how I strive to be as tenacious. The ground is thawed, and I was able to take up 30 square feet more sod to make space for MORE garden. 

I hate exercising for no reason; this work better suits my temperament. I like the rubbery feeling of worn-out muscles, the dirt under my nails, the outside smell of my hair. I love reclaiming soil from a mute, complacent grass patch to bring forward succulent, giant tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, eggplant, peas. My body was made to hunch, dig, lift, rake, pick.  

While doing these things, I think about plans, life, grubs, now, bird song, the pickers who go through our garbage, neighbors, travel, humus, teaching, damn cucumber beetles, children, fresh basil, friends, blossom end rot, family, mint in my salad, dinner. I also think about art a lot. I've been asking some questions lately. Specifically, though not entirely, these: what connection do art and gardening have? Can they be integrated into one another? Can my studio be both inside and outside? 

Other artists have gone here before. Fritz Haeg, Mel Chin, even Jeff Koons. I need to research more, perhaps find some companions. Among this cohort right now are poets Stanley Kunitz and Mary Oliver. This blog is named after one of Stanley's writings from the book The Wild Braid:

Compost

The compost pile is a site of transformation, taking what has been cast off and returning it to the garden. It's not just garbage, after all.

The distillation of any philosophy of composting has some connection with the positive concept of waste and death. The contribution that mortality makes to civilization is the equivalent of what composting contributes to a garden.

We are all candidates for composting. So we cannot approach the compost heap without a feeling of connection.