Difficulties with Death

Ethical Dilemma: How does one rid the darling broccoli of green caterpillars without having to actually murder the litte multi-legged herbivores?


Proposal A: I gather them gently into my hand, then rest them atop my compost heap. 
Ethical questions:  Will they survive? If they do, are they content? And why, then,  wouldn't they munch on my kitchen waste to start with? If they don't survive, is this a fate more cruel than pulvarising their internal organs instantanously upon discovery?


Proposal B:  I fling them as delicate projectiles onto the lawn, three metres south of the broccoli. 
Ethical questions: Do they simply crawl back to their spiritual green rooms? If they do, how long does it take? Is it a perilous journey? Do small birds or spiders eat them, therefore making this decision ethically balanced? 


Proposal C: I squish them between my fingers. 
Ethical questions: How would I cope with their lime juice innards all over my hands? Would the guilt of murder outweigh the sense of moral duty to the survival of the broccoli? 


Any suggestions folks? All kinds of hypothetically-posed, philosophically-leaning answers welcome....

Gardens and Head Space

I find myself just looking for excuses to be in the garden lately. Last weekend I just spent a deliberately slow day tidying it. 

I'm pretty far removed from being the Suzie Homemaker type; housekeeping is not a particular talent of mine (nor should it have to be, really), but tidy the garden? Of course! I meticulously pulled miniscule weeds, swept and raked up old vegetation. I cleared the path of bins and bits of almost-garden tools. I remulched the overgrown patches. I trimmed the scrawny leaves off the roses and picked the caterpillar hoardes off the broccoli. 

And of course, all of these tasks take a good stretch of time. 
Thoughts begin to stray from forced and hurried to gentle and aimless... 
My brain becomes less deliberate - the right side purposelessly wandering in and out of idle ideas while the left side deals singularly with the dirt gathered in my hands and the leaves shading my head.
It was a glorious day to be in such a space. 

Bum Cracks and Gin

Possibly the best thing about the grown up garden is the sharing of it's space and produce with friends. 

When a mate dropped over one afternoon recently, we finished off a slim and lazy G and T before meandering through the plants to pick tomatoes, dig up potatoes, and snip some sprigs of mint and sage. It felt great to gather up a bunch of homegrown vegies and pass them on for someone else to enjoy. 

 This weekend, another friend came and met me out the back, picking green caterpillars off the struggling broccoli.  We got bogged down in between the tomatoes and basil, making old lady jokes about bum cracks showing and composting small children. 

And now here is old Sunday night already. Creeping in slowly and softly to remind me that I can't spend all my life out there picking and weeding and yarning.... There's other obligations to be met; other responsibilities to be faced up to. 

So here's to the next time we see you little garden.