Ever since my daughter planted cover crops in the fall of 2016, I’ve been fascinated by winter rye. How tall and glorious it grows. The subtle colors of its ears. The Catcher in the Rye, and the delicious homophone with wry.
Although it’s almost February, I finally ordered the seeds, and this morning went out to plant.
First, I had some clearing out to do:
The dead tomato plants still tied to their stakes, some Swiss chard, kale from two years ago, and a canticle of Canterbury Bells.
Next came the raking. The instructions said flat. I said flat-ish. Then it was time to broadcast the seeds. I wasn’t prepared for how wonderful it felt to stick my hand inside a one-pound bag of grain, and then strew the seeds over the ground. Liberally. The last step was to rake them in. Whatever. I hurried, certain that at any moment a flock of birds would descend to dine on my crop.
Here’s the final picture. Honestly, not nearly as interesting as the first.
And while I’m out in the dirt, I have time to think about writing, think about how messiness gives the eye and the mind nooks and crannies to explore. How it feels to dig in and turn over, to break the blockages apart, to weed through the words. How the rake finds new roots and clumps get rid of. Sometimes I get an idea for a poem.
This morning, I thought about how I’ve been working on a poem that complains about those people who say home-baked bread can’t be “from scratch” if you don’t grow your own wheat–and here I was planting rye! And I thought about how it’s better to experiment–and risk failure–in a poem, just as this rye patch may fail. This might be the shortest diary ever. We’ll see.
For now, all the magic is yet to happen, if it isn’t devoured by a thousand house sparrows first.
How do you let your mind loose? How do you experiment? How do you fail?