…you move too fast, you got to make the morning last.” My sister and I sang that song enthusiastically, in the back seat of our car. When we got to the “Feelin’ Groovy” chorus, we belted the lyrics out with gusto, albeit tunelessly.
This weekend, slowing down was the only possibility. The weather, in the 90s and with high humidity, made it impossible to even consider any outdoor project. Just walking to the chicken coop, my steps grew slower and slower.
I looked at my flower garden ruefully. This time every year it seems that I lose control. In the spring I watch the perennials get bigger (and a few weeds I am never positive about until they become huge and proclaim their identities). I think “Oh, I need to move this flower and that one”—they self seed and begin to crowd out the ones I actually planted myself. But other jobs seem more pressing, and where would I move them anyway? I can’t bear to discard a plant, so I am often stymied by what to do with them.
Then suddenly everything is big and bushy, with some flowers growing taller than I thought possible, competing with their neighbors. This weekend I vowed to tackle the flowers; just a couple hours a day would restore order. Instead I examined, from the relative cool of the house, the crazy, haphazard collection of purples, pinks and yellows, duking it out, and thought “Next weekend.” The butterflies and bees love the garden though, and I can see bees of all sizes moving from blossom to blossom. So all is not lost.