Solstice Morning

 

It is Solstice Morning--  a perfect summer dy. The sky is clear blue, no clouds, with a light breeze that smells of forest and ocean, and a vegetable garden that is visibly growing. The cat is sleeping on the bench. The rabbit is basking in the sun. The chickens are having quiet conversations about the nest box. We have even taken a whack at the pile of compost that needs trimming. The neighbor’s cherry tree is bearing this year; I see a pie for the evening celebration. The garden is peaceful under the strong morning sunlight.

However, we are an urban garden. Cars cruise down the next street over. The trash is being picked up one neighborhood over. Dogs bark. Neighbors are having distant conversations. Sometimes people are overly generous with their music and drama.  Occasionally someone looks over the fence and talks to the chickens (or pops an escapee back in).  In the evening, lights from the apartments across the alley may shine into the space, illuminating the way back to the coop. We have more rats than a country garden. I am constantly trying to crop cars, or piles of wood, or recycling bins, or the neighbor’s roof from my photos. We do not have the long views I see in so many garden plans and photos.

Mark and I both dreamed of acreage when we were younger. I imagined sprawling gardens with rock walls, greenhouses attached to my kitchen, maybe sheep in the barn. He wanted a cabin backed into second growth forest, where he could pace for hours, pondering the nature of the universe. Yet here we are, with a tenth of an acre, intensely cultivated, in the center of a small city in Oregon, far from our original homes. This Solstice morning, as I plant the seeds for our fall crops, it is a great plenty.