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Corona Garden

April 8, 2020

The first weekend in isolation, we went out to the garden. A long-neglected graveyard of dog excrement and broken toys, buzzing with flies, the work felt like the perfect project to “spring clean” – as if spring ever really comes in the city. The deck had the only respectable plants, some potted tulips and a reluctant sage. At least it was clean already.

Armed with gloves and black dumpster bags, we wrestled the clovers out of the ground, coming across stray dog shit and shaming myself in my head at how bad we let it get. How neglect turned our tiny plot of real green space into a smelly little dump. How wasteful. How ungrateful.

The last time I let it get this bad was when Simone was born. Those first few months, I couldn’t take care of any other creatures – Anthony took care of the pets, and me, and I took care of Simone. However, nearly every plant in our house died, because I am the one who cares about the greenery.

In a way, the clovers in our yard act like the virus. They choke the sunlight out of every other plant, covering them up completely until they wilt into the damp ground. You can pull up the weed, and it’s satisfying, because the root comes out completely – or so you think. Under the earth, a fat seed waits. You can’t see it. You don’t know how bad it is, or how many of them lie dormant. Unless we unearth an entire foot of soil in the garden and completely eradicate it, those little bastard seeds will come back over and over again. You can try as hard as you can but never truly get rid of them without serious and drastic effort. The lobotomy of garden work.

And so, too, my shame waits under the cover of one (in)action, and another, and another. It appears in situations where I have no control. Where I behave too much like a human, not enough like a saint. Where my thoughts and feelings are messy, and full of shit surprises. There’s no easy path out, unless we’re gonna unearth a whole layer of earth, which we very well may have to do at some point.

But for now, the patchwork effort is enough. The clearing we made, and the consistent effort to get outside, clean up, and maintain the space is just enough. Just enough that when I look out my bedroom window/home office/therapist’s office/personal space, I see a grateful little tree slowly budding apple blossoms, and I think: well if she can do it, damn it, then I will too.

Nextdoor and the Mission Terrace Garden Tour

March 23, 2018

I downloaded Nextdoor about a year ago, curious after having heard a story from my coworker about how in Russian Hill it was helping her feel connected to her neighbors.

I opened and scrolled through the feed, and noticed a posting advertising the first annual “Mission Terrace Garden Tour.” It promised “urban homesteads, drought-tolerant landscapes, glass-filled pathways, labyrinths, succulents, and blooms galore. Something for everyone,” they said. It was a sunny Saturday afternoon, and we went.

The walk was an opening of houses to showcase gardens. In Mission Terrace, where we live, there are stretches of awesome, entire-block-long backyards. At the first house we walked to, a 2-story right off Balboa Park, a woman sat in a lawn chair inside the garage handing out cookies. Simone was obviously smitten, as a 2-year-old gets when given cookies.

She pointed us back through, and we walked through their very normal garage full of boxes and art and old furniture into a backyard that stretched back at least 300 feet. The owner greeted us. A sizable greenhouse sat in the back, and to the side, a long section for composting. Row by row of gorgeous and slightly wild plants passed us by as we toured. The owner told us about the special worms used for composting, and offered to give us some, anytime.

We took a peek inside the greenhouse. A little Buddhist statue sat atop a large fan blowing hot air. The owner remarked that the greenhouse was most beautiful on a rainy day, sitting inside the warm hut with a joint listening to the pounding rain.

The next house, and the next house, and the house after that – they were all a blur. Genuinely nice people offered us strawberries, geeked out with us over landscaping and offered us wine. Simone tragically poked her hand into someone’s cactus and screamed while the homeowners rushed to get tweezers and snacks to distract her (we pulled out the spine, all was well). We kept on with our journey, and visited one woman who had recently transformed her backyard into an oasis complete with glass pebble walkway, multiple fountains and a breezy art studio. She handed me a glass and proclaimed, “Welcome! It’s rosé day!” As we left, others entered. More rosé.

As we were making our way back home (4 or so blocks), we passed a house that butted up against an easement. There are many of these easements in Mission Terrace; they’re an easy access point for PG&E from behind the house, so there are these barren trails behind the houses between blocks. As we chatted with the homeowner, he told us about a dinner that happens every year in September, the Alley Pasta Dinner. But that’s a story for another time.

Mission-terrace-garden-walk

A piece remains

October 25, 2016


All along the chain link fence by the baseball fields, there are pieces of tree root merged with the steel. 

From a distance, they look like a shoddy cleanup job, but up close, you can see where the gardener tried with all his might to break the pieces off the fence, and failed. You can see chop marks on the steel, and imagine the sweat on the brow of the body wielding the axe. But the pieces of wood remain glued to the metal links.

Sometimes a piece remains despite everything you try to do to remove it.

Maybe you just need to try harder to remove it. There has to be a way. Maybe you’re just not doing it right. 

Or, maybe it’s not meant to leave. There must be a reason it remains. Maybe you should just let it be. Learn to live with it. Let it sit there, incomplete. Hacked apart by previous attempts at removal, a reminder of steadfastness and to stay in the face of adversity.

Nah, I’m pretty sure it’s just a really stubborn piece of tree root.

Beautiful things: Devil’s Teeth Baking Company

April 1, 2016

Ooey, gooey cinnamon rolls.
Cinnamon rollImage borrowed from Serious Eats

Usually when I think of cinnamon rolls, I imagine the fluffy, pull-apart kind, dripping with butter and frosting. Devil’s Teeth Baking Company has created something… dare I say… pure evil?

My coworker brought a few of these lovelies in today, and the best (and most surprising) part is that the outer layer is crunchy. What is this black magic? Don’t cinnamon rolls bake together? How does this crunchy outer layer happen?

DEAR GOD. DO THEY FRY IT?

Beautiful things: Pavo Textile’s Etini Cobalt

March 31, 2016

There’s a certain magic to babywearing. One, it keeps your child so close that they are nearly always happy (“close enough to kiss” is the rule for proper baby height when wrapped on the parent’s body).  Two, it has eliminated so many parenting problems for me, including car seat abhorrence and lack of quality time after going back to work to name a few.  Traveling in particular is a breeze – wrap her up and there’s no crying, no complaining and most times, a great nap in there somewhere.

Three, they are devastatingly beautiful.

Case in point: Etini Cobalt by Pavo Textiles. Melt. Heart eyes.

Image borrowed from craftingoutloud.tumblr.com

When you become a mom, a lot of things immediately go out the window.  Time for shopping and fashion was the first thing to go, and any clothes I buy are online.  I used to have time to browse thrift stores and score awesome pieces at great prices, and now, well I’m lucky if I can find a pair of shoes I like online and get over my trust/quality barrier. It’s a pretty high barrier. However, buying Etini Cobalt took me, oh, maybe three seconds.

The weave. The colors. Guh. I just can’t part with this wrap, ever. I don’t know how I’ll use it after our babywearing days are over, but I’m confident I’ll think of something.

Image borrowed from theboysandb.tumblr.com

Create something today even if it sucks.

March 31, 2016

Today, I break my blogging dry spell, thanks to a t-shirt.

I went outside for lunch about 30 minutes ago, stressed about the growing number of emails in my inbox, the baby at home, and a lovely car snafu from earlier in the week.  As I was walking towards the grocery store, I passed a guy in a maroon t-shirt with the words:

So here we are.  Thanks, maroon shirt guy.

And so what am I creating today?

My happiness, I hope.  By actually putting words to website and making real what’s always in my head, I want to create:

-Short stories

-Big novels

-Words about beautiful things

I’ve been hesitant to blog about life with baby because I’m unsure how she’ll react to being written about when she’s old enough to register that she didn’t have a choice.  Sorry, Simone, but mommy needs an outlet. We’ll negotiate payback when you’re older.

 

 

 

On 10 years together

September 24, 2015

When my husband and I moved into our house in 2012, the first thing I did was tear the garden apart.

In the waist-high grass, I found an old shovel with a rotten wooden handle that broke apart in my hands.

In the dirt, I found hundreds of tiny, electric green orbs, magical bead-like things that we dubbed fairy balls, whose purpose was a mystery.

In the clearing, I found a perfect four leaf clover that I kept and framed.

On our 10 year anniversary today, I’d say our love is a little like that garden we moved into: hidden inside ourselves we found broken pieces of each other to mend, hundreds of moments from a fairy tale, and from the first moments were impossibly lucky to have found each other.

Bringing our baby girl Simone into the world together is just the beginning, and watching him with her makes my overflowing heart feel like it might explode. Saying I love him feels so inadequate sometimes, because there are no words for this beautiful life we have.

Anthony, I love you madly, and all I can do is thank our lucky stars we found each other. Here’s to us, and to growth, and to creating the clearings.

._1__You_and_Anthony_Gesek