I’ve tried everything. Chicken wire stapled into the wood frame. Marigolds planted at either end. Last year, I sprayed hot pepper spray and fox urine incessantly. And still, the rabbits find their way in and nip off the green beans, the carrot stalks, the cucumbers until they can no longer grow.

And while I know it’s only a garden, I feel violated for all the effort I’ve expended trying to create nourishment right here at home.

Yesterday, Shaya said, “The rabbits are mean because they’re eating people food in our garden.”

And while I melted at the earnestness of his sweet little voice, I shook my head and said, “No, honey, the rabbits don’t know any better. They’re not smart like people to understand that we planted the garden for us – they think it’s for them.”

It’s raining today, as it’s been raining for weeks now, and teh sky is gray-green and full of clouds. Apparently a sudden cold snap – after two weeks of near-90 days – has thwarted Michigan’s spring¬†crops.

The asparagus we ate last night, and the broccoli omelets, fresh and green from the Sunday farmer’s market, sure tasted rich and full. Why worry about what’s to come when the abundant stroll we took among the farm tables early Sunday morning – in the rain, no less – had so much to offer?

Herbs and weirdly shaped eggplants and squash, already harvested by local hands.

You know, in these parts, the question of can we survive or will the economy turn, doesn’t really matter anymore. Worry is wasted emotion. There are businesses growing and businesses starting and people innovating so that the economy is a new one and one rich with intention.

Still. The morning is so dark I almost think it’s still time to sleep.

And so, with another day before me, and a day midway through a fast-moving week, fast as the river current which had risen to swallow the picnic table beyond the farmer’s market, I abandon any idea of worry and simply do what is right before me, under my nose, what is actually growing, rather than exert the effort to be concerned about what has been snipped along its path.

Connect with Lynne

Register for The Writers Community