Hi, internet, it's been a while! I have been busy losing my mind and then finding it again. It's been a good thing. It's been an unexpected answer to a longtime prayer, actually, but I'm not sure how much of it I should blog. The trouble with keeping an anonymous blog is wanting to tell your real-life friends about it and never knowing if you should. The trouble with telling all your friends about your previously anonymous blog is that pouring out your heart becomes awkward.
For everybody who used to hang out in the infertility blogosphere ca. 2004, do you ever wonder what happened to Getupgrrl? I wonder too what her blog would be like these days: would she have gone public and lost her edge?
I will have to keep thinking about the bloggable/unbloggable distinctions. But I took a piece of advice that people have been offering me for about the past seven years, and it turned out to be really good advice. It made me think of that old joke about the person sitting on the roof in the flood. A guy in a boat came by and said, "Want to come with me?" "Oh, no," said the roof-sitter, "God is going to rescue me." Another guy in a boat came by and said, "Wow, I'm glad I found you! The water's really rising!" "Oh, no," said the roof-sitter, "God is going to rescue me." Finally a helicopter choppa-chopped overhead and dropped a ladder down to the man, now standing in water up to his neck. "Oh, no," said the roof-sitter, "God is going to rescue me." Then he drowned. He went to heaven, where he said, "God, I thought you were going to rescue me!" "What do you want?" God replied. "I sent you two boats and a helicopter!"
And now I will stop being cryptic.
I spent some time gardening today, yanking weeds and putting in flowers and herbs. I put pansies in all along the south side of the house, purple and lavender and cream and gold ones, and petunias along the east side. The petunias are all deep velvety purple, because that is the superlative petunia color. Petely didn't know what I was doing until he came out of the house to go on an errand with Elwood. "OH!" he exclaimed. (You have to imagine a supernova of delight and surprise bursting out of that lowly "oh.) "You're gardening!" He decided on the spot that a change of plans was in order, and spent the next hour helping me. We discussed the relative merits of our two pairs of shears, the ethics of slug salting (we started to exterminate a miniature specimen and then thought better of it, a decision I may regret if he and his descendants find my chard patch), and the anatomy of asparagus.
Last year we put in ten asparagus crowns, and so far seven of them have sent up stalks like spring's ensigns. (Do slugs eat asparagus crowns? Is there an underground slug cabal that perhaps fathered the slug we didn't salt today, and the even tinier specimen that I accidentally brought in on my hand after we finished? I did not freak out about having a slug on my hand, because I am Wise and Mature and St. Francis-Like and also because he was very very very tiny and even unexpectedly cute with his little waving slug horns. Cute is something I never thought I'd say about a slug. My previous comments about slugs have tended to be of the "we hates it forever" variety, accompanied by twitches of revulsion and despair, so I felt very pleased with myself for looking calmly at an actual slug on my actual body. But if they ate my other three asparagus crowns, this is totally war.) That is the worst parenthetical construction I have ever constructed, but let us move on. Anyway, did you know this? The scales on a stalk of asparagus are the spots where the little ferny fronds emerge if you don't cut it. The scales are not strictly decorative, like patch pockets for the Jolly Green Giant; they seem to support the baby stalks. Pete pointed it out to me, on the stalk we cut today that should really have been cut yesterday instead because it was juuuuuust beginning to fern out today. Very cool.
I was reluctant to plant asparagus and rhubarb because they require patience. But I think that patience gets easier as I get older, because I know that a year will whoosh by in no time flat. I planted bare-root rhubarb two years ago, which means that this year we should be able to harvest all it gives us. And this year we can pick some of our asparagus, even though we don't get to go hogwild until next year. Pete and I eat it one stalk at a time, admiring its superior flavor. I am tempted to feel like a genius when I see a new stalk peeking up through the ground. I think, "I planted that!" But then I think about 1 Corinthians 3: I planted it; Pete watered it. But God made it grow.