Love the sentiments you share here Ryan, it ties in exactly with how I feel about my own, tiny kitchen garden. Can't plant anything directly into the ground due to soil contamination, so I use pots with so so results - but things flourish in my netted wicking bed, which I guess is not dissimilar to Lune's climate-controlled box (well, a lot cheaper to run, at least).
The lady at the nursery is indeed very wrong about coriander; have managed to kill off at least three specimens by now.
At the end of a very dry 2023 spring - one in which we were feeding the cows hay to keep them alive, I planted a vege garden! I committed to watering it daily and what a magnificent garden I made. Tomatoes, cucumbers, beans, rocket, radishes, pumpkins, rockmelons, herbs, etc etc.....
The dams were drying out, and as summer rolled in it had still not rained. But we had plenty of bore water for the garden. My little garden produced an abundance of all things red and green and sweet .
I was pretty chuffed with myself, and my family was praising my green fingers.
Then in December we had a massive hail storm which smashed almost everything I grew. It was pretty devastating to see parts of pumpkin bush splattered across the paddock. But with some sun and more committed watering it all recovered!
Then came January and the big rain. For three days it rained - about 6 inches in total. The vege garden sat in water - roots rotted and the beetles, bugs and fungal spores all arrived. Almost overnight my beautiful vege patch contracted every disease (apparently they come with the wind and rain). I spent many days picking off dead leaves, caterpillars and beetles, but most of it was beyond saving. The disease was far worse than the violent hail, and my "green fingers" were caught napping. I didn't even see it happening till it was too late.
I was too busy admiring how much all the grass was growing in the paddocks after those 6 inches. The cows got fat, and shiny, and they have time now to sit around and day dream and chew their cuds. They are happy.
The other thing that growing your own food demonstrates is how hard it can be! Other creatures want to eat the fruits of your labour and they aren't interested in sharing.
And yet - as I wrote - I wanted to talk about the other Japan - attuned to the passing of the seasons. My acquaintanceship with the Shintō world - of trees and conservation of the natural environment (the little that remains) - of how the year follows the changing of those seasons - the ploughing of the fields, then their flooding, the planting of the rice - its tending - its growth - its harvest - rituals for ensuring its success - others for giving thanks - or for the seasonal runs of fish and other sea life including sea vegetables (crudely translated into English as sea-weed) harvested from the sea. People heading out to admire the early spring flowering of plum and then of cherry (many varieties) - the new green (leaves unfurling) and then - of the hydrangeas - and in the opposite season to view vast fields of cosmos or the turning of the leaves to bronzes and golds and crimsons. A kind of heart's ease effect I used to feel - having my own regional places to appreciate these things - living where I was in western Honshū.
I could feel my own life slowing as I read this gently reflective essay on timing our lives with the trees - or the seasons. I was just outside dead-heading our side passage hydrangeas - which, to tell the truth - flower all year - though not as vigorously as in their rightful season - yet even when most/all leaves have fallen away. It's a kind of miracle. And of course - ajisai - their Japanese name (singular & plural)- take me back to my years in Japan and temples and city parks famous for their seasonal displays of traditional and other varieties and colours. And that was a society run like clockwork. In my 16+ years there I was late three times - a land where people who arrive five minutes early still apologise for being late, mind. The shinkansen pulls up on time at the exact spots designated for alighting and getting on board and at exactly two minutes later - it glides away. I lived in those days by the clock and precise timings - teaching and meeting appointments guiding my days and weeks and months and years. Now, years later and re-acclimatised I can sit down to read or take a walk and time itself ceases to exist. I plan to join Zoom gatherings and two days later realise the appointed hour has passed. As for your reference to the impossibility of killing coriander/cilantro - totally agree with your assessment. Of other plants my wife has a green thumb - spinach, parsley, thyme, chives, rosemary, lettuces, beans, tomatoes - even blueberries, figs and mulberries (and all in pots or standing "hip-hite" garden "beds"). Good to "hear" from you again...
Love the sentiments you share here Ryan, it ties in exactly with how I feel about my own, tiny kitchen garden. Can't plant anything directly into the ground due to soil contamination, so I use pots with so so results - but things flourish in my netted wicking bed, which I guess is not dissimilar to Lune's climate-controlled box (well, a lot cheaper to run, at least).
The lady at the nursery is indeed very wrong about coriander; have managed to kill off at least three specimens by now.
At the end of a very dry 2023 spring - one in which we were feeding the cows hay to keep them alive, I planted a vege garden! I committed to watering it daily and what a magnificent garden I made. Tomatoes, cucumbers, beans, rocket, radishes, pumpkins, rockmelons, herbs, etc etc.....
The dams were drying out, and as summer rolled in it had still not rained. But we had plenty of bore water for the garden. My little garden produced an abundance of all things red and green and sweet .
I was pretty chuffed with myself, and my family was praising my green fingers.
Then in December we had a massive hail storm which smashed almost everything I grew. It was pretty devastating to see parts of pumpkin bush splattered across the paddock. But with some sun and more committed watering it all recovered!
Then came January and the big rain. For three days it rained - about 6 inches in total. The vege garden sat in water - roots rotted and the beetles, bugs and fungal spores all arrived. Almost overnight my beautiful vege patch contracted every disease (apparently they come with the wind and rain). I spent many days picking off dead leaves, caterpillars and beetles, but most of it was beyond saving. The disease was far worse than the violent hail, and my "green fingers" were caught napping. I didn't even see it happening till it was too late.
I was too busy admiring how much all the grass was growing in the paddocks after those 6 inches. The cows got fat, and shiny, and they have time now to sit around and day dream and chew their cuds. They are happy.
I enjoyed this piece Ryan. Cheers.
The other thing that growing your own food demonstrates is how hard it can be! Other creatures want to eat the fruits of your labour and they aren't interested in sharing.
enjoyed reading about a truer sense of time...cheers Robbie
And yet - as I wrote - I wanted to talk about the other Japan - attuned to the passing of the seasons. My acquaintanceship with the Shintō world - of trees and conservation of the natural environment (the little that remains) - of how the year follows the changing of those seasons - the ploughing of the fields, then their flooding, the planting of the rice - its tending - its growth - its harvest - rituals for ensuring its success - others for giving thanks - or for the seasonal runs of fish and other sea life including sea vegetables (crudely translated into English as sea-weed) harvested from the sea. People heading out to admire the early spring flowering of plum and then of cherry (many varieties) - the new green (leaves unfurling) and then - of the hydrangeas - and in the opposite season to view vast fields of cosmos or the turning of the leaves to bronzes and golds and crimsons. A kind of heart's ease effect I used to feel - having my own regional places to appreciate these things - living where I was in western Honshū.
I could feel my own life slowing as I read this gently reflective essay on timing our lives with the trees - or the seasons. I was just outside dead-heading our side passage hydrangeas - which, to tell the truth - flower all year - though not as vigorously as in their rightful season - yet even when most/all leaves have fallen away. It's a kind of miracle. And of course - ajisai - their Japanese name (singular & plural)- take me back to my years in Japan and temples and city parks famous for their seasonal displays of traditional and other varieties and colours. And that was a society run like clockwork. In my 16+ years there I was late three times - a land where people who arrive five minutes early still apologise for being late, mind. The shinkansen pulls up on time at the exact spots designated for alighting and getting on board and at exactly two minutes later - it glides away. I lived in those days by the clock and precise timings - teaching and meeting appointments guiding my days and weeks and months and years. Now, years later and re-acclimatised I can sit down to read or take a walk and time itself ceases to exist. I plan to join Zoom gatherings and two days later realise the appointed hour has passed. As for your reference to the impossibility of killing coriander/cilantro - totally agree with your assessment. Of other plants my wife has a green thumb - spinach, parsley, thyme, chives, rosemary, lettuces, beans, tomatoes - even blueberries, figs and mulberries (and all in pots or standing "hip-hite" garden "beds"). Good to "hear" from you again...