WEEKLY WRITER'S PATH #14
You can’t just drop a seed on the ground in northern New Mexico and expect it to grow; it takes lots of planning and intelligence to have a fruitful garden. You’d think something as organic as soil and water and soft green shoots would have nothing to do with flow rates and zone classification, but living in a high-altitude desert makes nature even more complex than it already is. And sometimes it feels like getting published is just as complicated.
I came home from the local xeric greenhouse with a box of parts to drip-irrigate just a tiny patch of land: 50 feet of ½” polyethylene tubing, 50 feet of ¼” microtubing, hose connectors, 3-way layout tees, tubing holder stakes, a hole puncher, goof plugs for when you put the hole in the wrong place, and of course, an assortment of self-cleaning, pressure-compensating black plastic drippers. Oh, right: and plants.
Ducking in and out of greenhouses under stormy skies, I selected two oriental poppies (one blooming), a Russian sage, two creeping flowery things and catmint. All gallon buckets. My plan is to add these new babies to the spots outside my window where there are already a few suffering lilac bushes, a 2-foot tree of unknown origins, and a lot of hard-packed dirt and gravel.
First I opened the drip irrigation box and discovered something missing. Well, not exactly missing, but certainly not present. On the box is a picture of a grey and black “backflow adapter” under the print that says: INSIDE THIS BOX. But, then in parentheses, the model number with an additional letter “A.” The model I picked did not have an “A.”
Next we took the 50 feet of ½” tubing out and stretched it from the spigot and across the walkway up the small grade to “the spot.” Too short. I sent the dad back to the greenhouses in between his other errands to pick up more supplies. Meanwhile, I set the plants in their containers out in places where I can see them from my window, the orange floppy petals of the poppy like the soft ears of a friendly puppy begging me to come play.
Gardening like this feels like building the massive structure behind getting a simple story published. First there’s the writing of it, then the analyzing of the market, then the push-pull of rejections-sendings of the manuscript. Right now, DIZZY SUSHI is at an agent who requests exclusivity. Meaning I can’t send it to anyone else until she says yea or nea. If she says no, then it goes on to the next agent, also exclusively. So it’s a waiting game, and meanwhile I keystroke other stories, monologues, blogs.
The point of it all? Like gardening in the desert, you acquire the Japanese esthetic of wabi-sabi: the appreciation of imperfection. (Because it’s quite perfect.) My black drip hose is stretching out under the stars tonight, held down by rocks, just inches away from its destination. And until I rake away the deadheaded Maximilion daises, dig holes, add compost, twist in the drippers and plug the goof holes, the black hose will be a reminder of possibilities. And that’s just perfect.
