Archives for posts with tag: energy

I know I’ve mentioned it many times before but I’m not going to let that stop me: Saying yes to one thing means saying no to others. I repeat it so often because it is still true.

Sometimes, the “no” is explicit—someone asks for something and the request cannot be granted—but it need not be. More often, the time and energy available are consumed by the committed tasks and at the end of the day, there are no resources left for the things not committed to. Stuff just does not happen.

It isn’t hard to guess where I’m going with this. I recently said yes to some work for my former partners. A large chunk of my time is now committed to this worthwhile—and quite enjoyable—project and, as a result, I have less time for other things, most notably this blog. That is why my posts have been few and far between lately.

Now, this is not to say that my blogging is less worthwhile or less enjoyable than the other work. Nothing could be farther from the truth. No, blogging has simply become less urgent; it remains very important to me. I admit to feeling a little discomfort with this—the puritanical worker in me wants to do everything, to get it done, now!—but I know I will catch up. Anyway, it is summer, a time when the pace is slower and more relaxed. For all I know, my readers are on vacation or tending their own gardens.

Nor does my not writing about the garden mean that nothing is happening there. To the contrary, the planters are bursting with growth, especially the east planter with its bounty of root vegetables (most especially, the turnips) and snap peas, while the cucumbers, tomatoes, squash, eggplant, and bell peppers are preparing to carry out their own surge.

The most comforting aspect of the garden is that at this time of year, it practically takes care of itself. It basks in the sun by day, receives gentle watering from the timed hoses or occasional thunderstorm in the evening, and, at intervals, enjoys a little love from Rachel and me. Because in addition to everything else we are doing, we are both still chanting “yes!” to the garden.

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Today, more digging.

Each time I pull out the shovel, I hope that it will be the last time. However, I must face this cold, hard fact: In the garden, there will always be digging to do.

For those who have not already stopped reading, I’ll skip the griping and keep it positive. We’re working on the planting area for the cucumbers which last year, we grew behind the west planter. This year, we’ll plant behind the east planter in what passes for crop rotation around here.

As noted in one of last season’s recaps (see January 15, 2014), our hypothesis for why the cucumbers underperformed is that we did not provide them with enough fertile soil in which to flourish (well, that’s one reason anyway). To test this theory, we’ll dig a continuous trench this time instead of the discrete pits we dug last year. This will result in more new soil available to each cucumber plant.

And it turns out that this also results in easier digging. Yes, we still encountered numerous rocks and boulders (I didn’t say that it was easy digging) but the elongated shape of the trench reduced the confinement of the rocks within its depth. Knocking them free with the shovel required half the effort needed for a small, circular pit.

Digging the trench also required half the time and we were done by noon. After a quick break for lunch, we filled the trench with soil; see May 11, 2014 for a description of that process.

To complete the setup, we installed stakes and chicken wire against the pool fence. I had expected the most difficult part of this task to be driving the stakes. However, as we learned last year, pre-drilling the holes with a steel rod and sledge hammer greatly reduced the necessary effort. No, the most difficult part was unrolling the chicken wire (which we purchased last year and which had been stored in the workshop since) and keeping it flat.

The area is now ready for the cucumber seedlings and we’ll set them out tomorrow. If they do better this year than last, we’ll plan on digging another trench behind the west planter next year. As I said, there will always be digging to do.

Still playing catch up, we thinned the beets and turnips today. Doing the turnips was easy: we had placed the seeds with one and a half to two inches in between them; to thin, we simply pulled out every other sprout. The remaining turnips, now spaced at three to four inches, should not need to be further thinned.

Thinning the beets required a bit more attention. Their seeds are clustered so even though we used the same initial spacing, each cluster produced multiple tightly-bunched sprouts. Rather than pull them out, which might damage the roots of those left to grow, we used clippers to cut off the extraneous stems and leaves. As it turned out, because the beet seeds did not germinate with the same success as the turnips and radishes, there was less thinning to do.

To wrap up in the garden, we harvested the first of the radishes. And we were just in time, too. Shortly after we went inside to sauté them with the beet and turnip greens, a rainstorm of nearly biblical proportions came crashing through.

These strong summer storms are very exciting and not a little alarming. They arrive with next to no warning—unlike hurricanes and tropical storms which are monitored closely as they track up the Atlantic seaboard—and can dump a huge volume of rain in a very short period. In fact, today’s storm brought a higher precipitation rate than either Hurricane Irene or Hurricane Sandy. Our road nearly washed out.

Luckily, however, the tempest had subsided after an hour or so (unlike the hurricanes which take a day or two before they run out of energy). No real damage had been done but the runoff washed around the raised beds and redistributed the cedar mulch. Still, it underscores the need for more risk analysis (see May 7, 2014).

With climate change clearly in progress, heavy rains such as the one this afternoon have been and will continue to be much more likely. The consequences remain moderate: flooding of the pool and garden area. So far, the impact to the house has been minimal although the long-term exposure to moisture—to the point of saturation—may eventually lead to rotting timbers and a leaky roof.

It is apparent that I need to assess the topography of the yard and devise surface drainage routes to relieve the low-lying areas where rainwater accumulates. The big unknown for us is what exactly to do to mitigate the flow and how much it will cost us.  Because although it is true that I can’t do anything about the weather (despite talking about it a lot), I can do something about its consequences.

The garden has gotten off to a slow start this year. The cold weather has been a big factor, of course. Late-melting snow and lingering cold pushed the date when outdoor activity could commence from mid-March to mid-April. Indoors, even though heating pads and the radiators in the basement help keep the seedlings warm, the continued low temperatures have had a stunting effect of their growth.

And don’t get me started on the chilling effect—literal and figurative—of the weather on us humans.

But we’re starting to catch up and finally, a combination of spring-like weather and re-awakened energy has motivated me to get back outside. We’re almost ready to sow seeds for peas and root vegetables but first, I have to add soil to the planters. After sitting under more than a foot of snow for two months, the soil has settled by two to three inches.

An infusion of organic material won’t hurt, either, so it was off to the Plant Depot for compost. We purchased 16 bags of the stuff—that’s at least 640 pounds—which I schlepped from the car down to the planters, two bags at a time, in a wheelbarrow. Before dumping it into the planters, I raked out last year’s straw mulch along with the leaves and other debris blown there over the previous six months.

Along with the compost, I added about half as much (by volume) of peat moss to balance the soil and lessen its density (bagged compost can be highly compacted). I mixed it around with a steel rake—an operation akin to stirring a cauldron of witch’s brew—and leveled it out. There are just a few more ingredients to add (seeds, mulch, stakes) before the concoction is complete.

Funny what will happen when you aren’t looking.

Due to a combination of other activities (which used up all of my available time) and inclement weather (which kept me indoors when I was not out running errands), I did not make it into the garden yesterday until after dark.  I made an inspection as best I could (the solar-powered bird lights from Ikea do not cast much light) but was only able to determine that nothing major had occurred in the garden all day.

Or so I thought.  This morning, while making my rounds, I discovered that most of the string beans have sprouted.  And “sprouted” would be an understatement.  Not only have the seeds germinated and the stems pushed their way to the soil surface, but already, the seedlings are three to four inches tall.

String beans produce stocky stems right from the start and most of the stems already support a pair of true leaves.  With only two days of growth, some of them already look larger and hardier than the beets, which have been growing since April.  The seedlings of the Bush II beans are a bright pea-green while the stems of the Amethyst purple pole beans are a ruddy green, a color similar to rhubarb.

The seedlings emerged two days before the early estimate provided on the seed package.  Funny how fast a plant will grow when the conditions are right.

Well, we did our best to find homes for all of the seedlings—plants we started from seed, raised indoors under fluorescent lights, nurturing them with gentle watering and periodic doses of fertilizer until they grew large and strong enough to be set outside to take their chances with Mother Nature and other gardeners—and we were reasonably successful.  Of the eight or so people we reached out to, four accepted our offer.  And while one took only a few seedlings (her gardening space is small), three left here with one or two of each.

We started with six trays of seedlings which potted-up to six trays full of fledgling vegetable plants; today, only about 20 remained.  It is late in the planting season and the seedlings have almost used up the nutrients that remain in their small pots of soil; their leaves have all turned yellow.  We can’t think of anyone else to offer them to so…we let them go.  We said some words of thanks and tossed them onto the refuse pile.  They were a good bunch of plants and I’m sure their energy will return to our garden, somehow, in a future year.

This year’s success story, in the early season at least, is the turnips.  They have been happily and exuberantly growing, providing us with tasty bitter greens and piquant roots.  Despite being crowded together, the roots have grown to diameters up to two inches.

The radishes and carrots have been doing moderately well even if they are slower to develop than we would like.  The first two rows of radishes are now mostly gone—eaten—but we are still working on the first row of carrots.  So far, only a few have grown to what I would consider normal size.

At the other end of the scale, the beets have not been performing well at all.  Even those seeded first—longer than two months ago—have not yet produced more than a few small leaves and there has been no enlargement of the roots.  We have been fertilized them monthly but that hasn’t seemed to help.

In fact, it might have hurt.  Doing a little research online, I found that a likely reason the roots haven’t grown is that the beets’ environment is too rich in Nitrogen.  This macronutrient is crucial for flowering plants and promotes the growth of the greens.  And because a plant has only so much energy available to it, what has gone into the leaves has not been available for root development.

That might also explain the slow growth of the radishes and carrots, both of which have towering greens but small roots.  Also, some of the radishes have bolted (gone to flower) which makes sense in a Nitrogen-rich environment.

Talking to our farmer friend, Jay, at the market this morning, we learned further that thinning might be even more critical than we thought.  We’ve been diligently thinning the radishes and turnips, motivated by our predilection for the greens in salads or sautéed as a side dish, but have been less attentive to the carrots.  Their greens are less attractive as a vegetable in their own right.

And I discovered that I had seriously neglected the second row of carrots.  It is sandwiched by two rows of turnips whose bushy greens almost completely obscure them.  I’m not sure I have ever thinned this row and spent a half-hour this afternoon catching up.

Jay also told us that beet seeds are actually seed clusters.  This means that even if they are carefully sown with ample space between them, thinning will still be necessary if and when all of the individual seeds germinate.  There’s no getting around it.

Often when I am planning a trip to a new destination (or one with which I am not very familiar), I will make a virtual visit using Google Maps.  I am a visual thinker and have found that by looking at the satellite/aerial views—often combined with Street View—of a location, I can form a preliminary mental map that will help me navigate and become comfortable in a strange environment.  Call it pre-familiarization.

I made such a flyover before coming to Hawaii.  I was looking for the condo where we stayed on our last trip and where we are staying again this time (in the same room, coincidentally), the name or location of which I could not remember (it was more than 10 years ago).  I had only a general idea of where it was—across the road from the resorts of Napili and Kapalua—and a recollection that it was near a large hotel (where we sipped cocktails at sunset one evening).

It wasn’t much to go on but by cruising (digitally) up and down Lower Honoapiilani Road a few times, I was able to home in on a potential location.  There was no adjacent hotel (I learned from our friends yesterday that it had been demolished and replaced by luxury residences in the intervening years) but by zooming down, I was able to recognize the distinctive swimming pool, memorable for its azure blue tiles.  Rachel later confirmed the location, having found its website online.

A fringe benefit of my virtual touring is that I sometimes discover places of interest that I might not otherwise have encountered.  In this case, I happened upon the Dragon’s Teeth Labyrinth on a spit of volcanic rock north of our condo.  From the air, it would appear to be a full-sized Chartres labyrinth and to occupy a potentially sacred spot where land and water meet.  This morning, we set out to see it for ourselves.  The prospect was exciting as we have always enjoyed walking labyrinths and developed one on our property (see July 10, 2011).

Public access to the coast cannot be restricted in Hawaii (even though much of the oceanfront property is privately owned) and there are many trails that follow the shore.  One such trail heads north from Kapalua Beach and winds through the luxury residences (which seem strangely vacant).  As we passed by, a rainbow appeared to the west between us and Molokai, an auspicious beginning to our journey.  When the trail reached the north end of the housing complex, it led out onto a jagged outcropping of the solidified lava that forms most of Hawaii’s coastline.

From there, the trail turns eastward, first passing through a shore bird nesting habitat and then onto a boardwalk just above the beach at Oneloa Bay.  At the far end of the beach, the trail turns back inland to follow Lower Honoapiilani Road (although access to the coast cannot be restricted, much of it remains physically inaccessible).  A short walk along the road brought us to the fourth tee of the Kapalua Bay Golf Course.

Here we paused for a moment.  Getting out to the Dragon’s Teeth would involve walking along the edge of the fairway.  We knew that we had the right to pass but many golf courses are private and off limits to non-members or players.  When we saw a sign warning of proximity to the course—and not commanding us to keep out—we started down along the hedge that forms the fairway’s border.  At one point we held up to allow a foursome of golfers to play through.  It was not the reverent approach we were expecting to make (even if the more devout golfers around us would have considered this fine course a place of worship).

When we reached the outcropping it was evident how it got its name.  The eastern edge of the spit was lined with spiky vertical projections of lava (aa, presumably) that were upturned by wave action while still molten (or so I later read).  The waves are still quite strong here and wash against the Dragon’s Teeth obliquely resulting in a fountain of water that slides along the shoreline dramatically.

Just beyond the teeth, where the jetty levels out, we found the labyrinth.  Circular in plan, its 11 concentric paths are divided from each other by stones that have been smoothed by wave action and are anchored in place by succulents growing around them.  The labyrinth clearly sees many visitors as the paths have been worn down into ruts by heavy foot traffic.  Even so, we were fortunate to have it to ourselves.

We slowly and solemnly made our pilgrimage to the center of the labyrinth and once there, performed our version of the Medicine Wheel Prayer.  We first faced east and raised our arms in salute to spring and rebirth.  We next turned to the south and paid homage to summer and growth.  Then, we faced west, acknowledging fall and the natural endings in life and to complete the circle, we looked to the north in respect of winter and introspection.  Finally, we raised our heads to greet Father Sky and bowed to show our love for Mother Earth (perhaps a sphere would be a better symbol).

It wasn’t as mystical or woo-woo as it might sound (especially with golfers putting nearby).  It was, however, a simple ritual that left us feeling centered—literally and figuratively—and fully appreciative of this world we live in and the particular paradise in which we found ourselves today.

This afternoon, Rachel and I took a walk to the end of the road to collect the mail.  I make the short trip and back (about a quarter mile each way) most days and find it a good time to ponder and reflect if I am by myself.  When Rachel joins me, it is an equally fine opportunity for us to chat about matters both trivial and profound.  There is something about walking and talking that stimulates my thinking.

Late afternoon is almost always a relaxed time of the day.  In summer, I can feel the earth’s relief (and can almost hear a collective sigh) as the sun starts to set and the temperature cools.  The energy of the surrounding growth and of life being lived—exemplified by the constant thrum of the crickets and cicadas—is still palpable but the mood begins to change from the serious concentration of the workday to the celebratory levity of the night.  I leave the house having completed a hard day’s work and when I return, it is time for dinner.

At this time of year, the day-ending quiet starts much earlier.  I still feel the passage of the sun (and a much more pronounced drop in temperature) but with winter almost here, there is also the feeling of imminent bedtime, of the plants and wildlife settling in for sleep.  There are few natural sounds—wind through the now-bare trees; a brook burbling with ice-cold water—and that gives me a sense that the flow of energy is slowing.  It creates a state of restful equanimity that helps prepare me for the long winter ahead.