This dusty dirt road of ours that winds its way beautifully up to Rivendell, continues to challenge us. We have yet to repair the damage done by the tropical storm and the deep trenches that form on its edge from water run-off make passage somewhat more exciting than what we would like.
This week, we were trying to tow some heavier objects and right at the road's steepest point, our car no longer had the power to pull. Asking too much from our car and likely too much from our road, we were stuck, once again.
The tow truck driver had been to the property before. He knows us and gives the kindest of smiles, despite it taking him 90 minutes to get our trailer detached from the car, turned around, and tucked away in Bree. Paul hands the driver our payment card and says, "Have mercy." But so familiar we are with this routine, we know the charge will be $300. It's funny how hope works. We always have so much hope that our car will do what we want it to do, we never stop to think if the hope is reasonable, or not. I know it will happen again because hope has proven itself stronger than reason. The good news is that we are successful much more than not. I reckon we are winning.
My tomato plants, the only plant that is doing well currently, are disappearing, stem-by-stem. I know I have hornworms and wish I had chickens, who would love the opportunity to take care of the situation for me.
I wonder why all of the birds -some quite large- that visit the sanctuary aren't beak-diving into these plants and feasting on these juicy, plump, alien-like, slow-moving bodies.
I went out at sunset last night to hunt for hornworms and when I found my first one, I just couldn't bring myself to disturb him. He was happily munching away. Knowing their life cycle is brief, I left him in his happy place and practiced the gardener's art of surrender.
I have other friends in the garden. Ones I just cannot bring myself to interrupt. This spider and I have had many conversations these past months. I've watched him grow from the size of a pea to the size of a quarter. It is a beautiful spider and different from what I am used to seeing.
I have a healthy fear of spiders and a long history of trying to save them. Well, unless they are venomous. When driving on the plateau, I continue to count tarantulas. Once home, I open my journal and log what I've seen.
Every now and then, I pause long enough to wonder if it is weird to count tarantulas and log the sightings. The thought is fleeting and far less invasive than the desire to observe and record.
Today, I was scheduled to clean-out the greenhouse, but I am afraid. The large-hairy-brown-probably-going-to-jump-on-my-face-like-in-the-movie-Alien spider has disappeared from the greenhouse's corner. This means, when working in the space, I can no longer keep my eyes on him, which was my original intent.
I don't know if I will be able to muster the courage to proceed with my plans, but I shall do my very best. In the interim, I've been spending a lot of time in the mediation garden weeding and fixing the stones that were displaced during the storm. Yesterday early morning, Paul and I went to an estate sale and brought home a little wood fountain and four plants. I am excited to place these in the garden. So, should my courage never fully present itself, I've plenty of chores to do.
When I taught kindergarten and first grade, I read The Spider and the Fly so many times to my students that still to this day, I have it memorized. Though it long ago disappeared from my home library, probably loaned out and well-loved by others, it remains one of my favorite stories.
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