Reading watermelon leaves. At midlife.
Today, I cut open this watermelon grown in my garden. And I ate it. We all ate it.
My son took a photo of it and sent it to his girlfriend.
Anything that would make a 20 year old take a photo to send to his girlfriend — is down right miraculous around here.
I ate a quarter of it for breakfast.
After planting watermelon in my summer garden — year after year — this is the first that made it to this point in my whole lifetime of gardening experience.
Actually eatable. Actually good. Not kicked open too early by some rascal with four hooves, a white tail and large brown eyes. And not rotting on the vine for what reason God-only knows.
Here’s the funny thing.
I didn’t plant any watermelon this year.
Yes, I have a bummer (sic) crop of melon and I didn’t even entertain the notion of planting any.
Why should I? Year after year sowing and never reaping. Year after year after year.
So the summer I didn’t plant any seeds or transplants look what happened.
Yes. I’ve got a tired looking, feeling and acting garden this point of August. Well, all my plants are worn out — except those darned melon.
I can say, with the exception of my tomatoes, those watermelons might get my garden’s award for the best performer this summer.
And I planted over 20 tomato plants. So that’s not really a fair comparison.
I’ve just about stopped trying to spoon-feed y’all analogies about things because – well, it’s just not done by us professional types.
But I got to thinking — was there a message to me in this messy watermelon-producing patch? This bumper crop that sprang from all the mistakes, miscues and curses of yesteryear.
The first fruitful melon I’ve ever harvested and all I’ve done is to get the heck out of its way. And try to outsmart the deer.
Maybe I need to stop striving and grow – wild and messy, unbrushed and untamed — trusting in what was planted not by deliberate measure but sown organically, almost imperceptibly, quietly.
And bear fruit. In abundance. In peace.
Thoughts?
