Rolling the Boulder Uphill

Inspirational song: The Itsy Bitsy Spider (Traditional Children's Song)

I spent another satisfying morning working in the Park, until the direct sun and heat chased me inside for a while. When I decided large-scale gardening was a desirable activity, I don't think I fully comprehended how time-consuming and repetitive it was going to be, nor could I have believed that I would enjoy the hard work that it has been. Every day involves pulling weeds, mowing, or raking sycamore pods, and I have to make sure every corner gets water, every day. But this is no Sisyphean task. It's not punishment. It gives me something tangible I can look to when I need validation, when I want to believe I'm making a difference somewhere on this earth. Today that difference was small, as when I fed squirrels and a duck, or when I made a vow to the bees in my tea olive wall never to use herbicides (I said it out loud to them, so it's a binding contract now). My reach isn't very wide yet. But in little steps, maybe my influence in such things will grow. My younger daughter is starting to experiment with growing things. She has tried planting flowers in the small area around the condo where she lives, and she has struggled with keeping them alive. But in the struggle, in the failures, there is learning. I am very happy to watch her make the effort. I've always known she was a nurturer, and this is further proof I was right. (Her sister is a defender, a hero waiting to happen, and I know it. So don't think I'm favoring one child over the other.)

The orb spiders came back today. Last year, especially while we were building the fence, they were everywhere. Their webs are enormous three-point sails, that sometimes stretch from several feet above our heads in the trees to the ground. It was awkward last year, walking all along the perimeter of the Park with six-foot cladding pickets balanced on one shoulder, dipping and limboing to avoid tearing down the webs. I begged them to stop placing webs on my front walk, between the door and my car. I would apologize and then sweep them away with a stick or broom handle, and each day there would be another one rebuilt, arcing between the columns of my front porch, directly in front of my door. It appears the game has recommenced.