Sitting in the garden is very important. On a warm day, I like lying down even better. G.K. Chesterton wrote that essay about lying in bed that starts with "Lying in bed would be an altogether perfect and supreme experience if one only had a colored pencil long enough to draw on the ceiling." Lying in the vegetable garden is a perfect and supreme experience. I used to mulch my paths with wood chips, but they're no good for this. Oak leaves are better, though they stick to your clothes and hair. A job isn't done until it's enjoyed.
I fought this grape vine for three years, then I stopped fighting. Now I love it. It's nice to look out at the kitchen sink through green leaves. I can see the little pear tree there, and the geranium planted at its base. I love that tiny geranium though it's no different from any of the other thousands of wild geraniums out this May. Walt Whitman asked Why are there trees I never walk under but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me? Why are there men and women that while they are nigh me the sunlight expands in my blood? These might be the only questions I care about.
Lying in the garden today, I was reading Turgenev. He wrote about lilacs, and so did Whitman. So did everyone. Lilacs don't make any sense- they're not that pretty, and what beauty they have isn't there long. But here they are, and here I am, smelling the lilacs again. The ones that blossomed pale in the heat have opened further now and have gone purple as the weather cooled. I can't tell if these two-toned bunches are gorgeous or ugly. The truth is, it doesn't matter to me at all. They're here such a brief moment. That's beauty enough.