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Sometimes I come somewhat grudgingly back to gardening after a long, wet winter. I’m like a teenager… like my teenager… who keeps pushing the snooze button on a school day. Only it’s not a school bell looming over me, it’s weeds. And drought. And a lawn that could swallow my short-legged dogs if I’m not careful. The fact of the matter is that I’m a lazy slacker of a gardener.

I hate weeding. I hate mulching. I hate feeding. I love planting. I love shopping for plants. I love deadheading, but not major pruning. I love watering with a hose, but hate hooking up drip systems. I really love photographing flowers. Yes, I earned a degree in horticulture from a respectable university, but most days it looks like I attended the Fickle Princess School of Mood Gardening. Not moon gardening, mood gardening.

If I’m in one of those magical moods which, perhaps not coincidentally, coincide with days when I’m well rested and sufficiently caffeinated, I can haul ass in the garden. Other times… ok, most of the time… gardening consists of watching weeds reach flowering stage, watching flowers wilt, and watching my dogs disappear into the lawn. This does bring on feelings of guilt and distress and inadequacy… and I usually respond by performing some hideous but tiny gardening task. Reactively, not proactively, I might add.

But today, I got a rain check. I don’t have to tackle the weeds in my veggie beds. Can’t find the damn hula hoe anyway. It probably hula’d its way over to a more worthy garden. As for me, I’ve got to scuffle off to yoga class. Believe me, I need it. Looming garden chores really stress me out. Namaste. I believe that translates to “Yours in sloth”.

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