Ugh. I'm just so over this garden thing. It's possible that taking on an enterprise that is subject mostly to the workings of nature, the least controllable force in the world, was not the best choice for me. I spent three and a half years in therapy trying to conquer my perfectionism and difficulty dealing with items outside my control. Hmmmm. Remember that SNL skit from the '90's? You know, Bad Idea Jeans? Welcome to my world.
I have always lived my life under the premise that anything can be fixed by just working harder. That doesn't work? Work even harder. Only that doesn't work when you're waiting for things to grow or trying to diagnose one of the 419,762 things that could be making Larry Tomato No. 1 turn yellow all over.
And if Larry No. 1 is turning yellow, it must be because I am responsible. And I have failed. Which is completely and utterly insane. Because I bagged my own dirt, added in turkey compost, fed with organic teas and other exotic fish-smelling atrocities. Watered effectively, staked appropriately, and personally went out each night, even in church clothes after Maundy Thursday and picked off each one of the fucking caterpillars that are eating everything. Like I said, farmer may not have been the best choice.
I guess where my failure lies is in feeling like I wasted something. Is it wasted time? Wasted money? If I am looking to this for a sense of worth and value, isn't it just as important that I am feeding my family vegetables whose origins I know intimately, whose life is an open book to me, who didn't have to be trucked in from anywhere? And isn't it important that I tried? And that it all looks so pretty? Sadly, no.
And so here is where you have to get real about personal failure: so what if nothing fruits? What's the worst that could happen? The worst that could happen is that I would have to go to the farmer's market and pick up what I need. Or the HEB, for God's sake. There are countless people in this world who don't have that luxury. Frankly, they don't even have running water. Or birth control. Or any food at all.
It may be about time for me to get over myself.