Attachments

Sage in the foreground, chives in flower at left. 

 

"I respect you," I said to the armload of thyme plant as I lifted it away from the ground. 

"Thanks for taking one for the team."

I dropped it into its new hole in the garden, at the base of the grape vine, three feet closer to the garage. Moving it was like picking up a pile of books and papers just as it lies on the table or couch and lifting it, unsorted, over to the desk—though the thyme holds together more stubborly. It's a felted mass of tangled stems, tiny leaves and, in late May, even tinier purple flowers, that has been rounding its way out onto the patio and any other empty space it finds. It smells like cooking—the seasoning for roast chicken or turkey or Thanksgiving dressing. In its new home, it needs patting down or maybe a comb-through to pull out the dead leaves from last. It will settle into in its new space soon. I'm pretty sure this mighty plant is indestructible. 

And yeah, I'm talking out loud to an herb, ascribing a personality to it and apologizing for bumping it out of its bossman place. I have attachments to this little patch of dirt.

Moving the thyme made room for last-year's lavender to grow, and for a second lavender plant and a marjoram and the dill that was already half-dead in the pot and might not come back. I'll have to trim the sage back just to be fair but not right now. It's got tall spiky purple flowers, where a few minutes ago I saw a hummingbird. 

I would not want you to think I'm a gardener. On a lot bigger than most of my neighbors' I have less than 40 square feet under control. My lawn is made of dandelion stems, waiting only for a strong wind to seed the neighbors yards. Last week I bought some new hostas for a shady spot next to the house, but there's a significant aching-back worth of weeds to pull out there before I can plant them.

Lots of birdsong in the backyard this morning. I'm just happy to be here with my herbal friends.