Besides mullein’s unique look, soft leaves and medicinal value, in truth, what really attracts me to mullein is its history and hints of its ability to ward off evil. Blame it on my Catholic upbringing. If holy water could defer the wicked from my soul, why not a plant?
The underlying cause of this gardening semi-failure, was my view of a pollinator garden was wrong. It was for my pleasure, not for the betterment of native species. But isn’t that just like a human? We take on an idea without connecting the dots to the big picture. I ignored the very premise of my book “Connection with 48 Natural Contemplations”—interconnecting with nature.
I am much like you.
I’m a gadabout
dressed in threadbare wings
still fluttering from
flower to flower…
Alas, I’m not goddess of the world. I wander through my own idiocy, bloviate when the opportunity arises, and I would do well to observe a flower from bud to full blossom — all of which brings me to tea time. How is that?
There are people, historically and presently, who for lack of a better phrase, were born under a bad sign. I’ve known some of them personally. For one reason or the other, they seem to have never developed a conscience that allowed them to judge good from bad.
“This is like living in a third-world country with high-end tax bills!” I screamed while scrubbing the bathroom with the captured water, which was not going to leave enough water to flush the toilet later on. I took a break. When I looked at my garden, the artichoke plants drooped like my sullen mood. They needed water. Thank goodness we captured some rainwater from the roof into a 300-gallon tank that sits in the driveway. It’s the new drought fashion accessory.
This story can also be read in The Cambrian Embedded just over my right eye is a one-inch scar. I was a tad […]
See this map? See the blood-red area of California along the coast? That’s where I live. It’s Exceptional-droughtland. And less than a year ago, our local community water providers left Pollyanna-land, and informed us citizens that there was a huge likelihood of our wells going dry by late 2014.
Like the Middle East, this garden vs. gophers is a historical war. My next door neighbor just nukes the furry beasts when he finds them. But, I, Ms. Organic, won’t bait them with poison, so they tunnel under our property lines and into paradise—my garden.
Not everyone agrees that your or my collective carbon footprint amounts to a hill of beans. Others shiver at the thought of another law or more government. And those who profit greatly from fossil fuels are the first to challenge any notion of the need to reduce one’s carbon footprint.
The Muse Pallet 