The desultory, unfocused morning stretched into the same kind of afternoon, and I gave up the pretense of attempting to accomplish anything and headed for a bath.
With an unread December Gardens Illustrated issue propped on the reading stand (often I just read the Frank Ronan pieces in the back and skip the main magazine entirely, saving the photos for more desperate, needy times, which would be now) I sat back in the hot water and examined my frustration at not accomplishing much. I would be heading north to the San Francisco garden show in two days and needed to get some work items out of the way, and this is just what I had been assiduously avoiding doing all day. I could tell this was beginning to eat at me when I found myself blasting PJ Harvey out of the garden office’s computer speakers to counter a neighbor’s more easy listening selections. Off to the tub for some hydrotherapy before the neighbors started to complain.
A wise choice. The bath house itself breathes sanctuary. It was painstakingly built by my husband, now asleep for an afternoon nap a few feet away.
I wouldn’t trade its rustic splendor for the Taj Mahal.
I pulled from the bath stand my little amber bottle of bath salts from Florence and placed it on the window ledge to better work its talisman magic on my mood. Although now empty, just the sight of it cheered me immensely. In Florence we had spent hours on foot searching for the Boboli Gardens, a rare instance of failure of navigation skills while traveling. Minutes before leaving Florence for home, I had run into a small pharmacy shop and managed to communicate a need for local bath salts and successfully procure them. There was the intrepid spirit I seemed to be missing today.
Irritation gradually seeped out into the bath water, and it occurred to me I had a few minor accomplishments to salvage from the day. Quite a few, actually. So what had I done today?
*Potted up three dahlias, moved the pots into the sun and gave them a good, long drink.
*Added fresh potting soil to the Xanthosoma ‘Lime Zinger,’ moved the enormous pot into the sun, soaked it.
*Weeded the brick terrace with a butter knife to ease out the weeds between the bricks.
*Found a seeding of Glaucium flavum in the terrace bricks (hooray!) and transplanted it into the garden.
*Found a eucomis bulb under debris on a pathway, miraculously intact and not mushed out, and planted it.
*Transplanted a seedling of a hyacinth bean vine.
*Swept the terrace.
*Weeded garden beds.
*Added blood and bone fertilizer to the clematis.
Sure, this was minor garden puttering, but still I was grateful for a small list of accomplishments. What do people without gardens do when plagued by such an unsettled mood? And will I ever go back to Florence for more bath salts and to actually find the Boboli Gardens this time?
