Late last week, I harvested with a vengeance. I gathered all the beet seed that I desired. I refrained from harvesting every last seed. I didn't think the return on my time would be worth it. I pulled up all the coriander, plants and all. The spinach seeds went who-knows-where. I don't know if they were eaten or if they fell off. The collard seed held no interest for me. I put the two bowls of seed in the kitchen and let them dry for a couple of days before I put them up into the pantry for long term storage.
Then, on Saturday, I took the loppers and attended to the garden. I was merciless against the collard plant. I didn't hesitate to pull up garlic chives along with weeds. I lopped off most of the beet tops, seeds and all. The compost pile was full. The only thing remaining lush is the grape vines. It feels so good to see the garden appearing loved. It's not a picture perfect place. It's still a working vegetable (and fruit) patch, not a display for flowers. I'm thrilled. I love caring for things. I love the work itself. It does me good.
The garden doesn't really care whether I care for it. The plants grow one way or another. My efforts in some ways are just a challenge for them, not a destruction (unless you ask the coriander.) The garden will improve even if it doesn't know what I'm doing is good for them. If only everything I loved were such an experience.