Transplanting Onions and Other Reflections

I transplanted onions today. Walla Wallas. It isn't customary to plant onions in the fall, that I know of, but they were already growing and needed to be divided. Here's the story.

I bought young onion plants in the Spring of 2013 from Pinetree Garden Seeds and planted them upon arrival in a 4 x 8 foot raised bed. They were growing well, until the weather got really hot in mid June. This triggered the plants to go dormant. At that time, however, they were only about one inch in diameter. Walla Wallas usually grow to 5 or 6 inches in diameter. I left the bulbs in the bed. Just because. In early autumn of last year they began to grow again. Still too small to harvest, I left them in the ground over the winter.

This spring they grew, but they also divided and tripled! Instead of one large onion, there were two or three smaller ones. In August, I harvested onions from half the bed. These were more than we would be able to eat and as I didn't have time to chop and freeze them, I gave away more than half of these. Walla Walla onions are not storage onions. They are wonderfully sweet and mild, but don't keep for too long.

The ones left in the bed began to grow again in early autumn. I could not leave them where they were for another winter. The double and triple bulbs were so close together they had no more room to spread out. So today I pulled them out, divided them and planted them in a new bed, again filling a 4 x 8 foot area! I do hope that these will continue to grow next spring to that classic Walla Walla size and that I will have the time to chop and freeze some when they are ready. If not, you may get some too!!

I could get philosophical and say that life is  a lot like growing onions. That sometimes unforeseen events happen in our lives that stunt our growth.  Or make us feel stuck. Or unable to move ahead. And time passes. And maybe we don't realize it, but all of a sudden we are green and alive again! Or maybe we've become complacent. Not growing and thriving, but maintaining our small, familiar world. It is only when we allow ourselves to be transplanted, to move onto something new, that we feel freedom. We have room to expand. And when we allow ourselves to do so, we get to experience just what our true potential really is. But I think you already know this.

Bird Watching, Old Age and a Lesson

 Eastern Phoebe

Phoebes, Ruby Crowned Kinglets, Juncos (they have returned), I think a Kingbird, Downy Woodpeckers, Nuthatch, an unidentified Sparrow and the many regulars are all out in the perennial garden, visiting the birdbath, hopping through the privet hedge, looking under the rhubarb leaves in the Hortus Conclusus. I so love watching them! I never get tired of it. A phoebe has spent a good amount of time here on the roof outside the dining room window, so I have been able to make eye contact with it and admire its soft feathers. It seems so much smaller up close than how it appears from further away.

view from my seat in the Dining Room

It is Sunday morning and I am sick. I have a very bad head cold. Stuffed up and face pain. I did not go with Bob to church today. I don't have much energy. So it is a delight to sit at the dining room table with my coffee and watch the birds outside. Especially since Bob removed the screens yesterday as the temperatures have begun to drop. No more opening the windows this season.

Where I sit each morning with my coffee to write my Morning Pages, read, reflect

 At this moment I think that if I had to pick one thing that I could do for the rest of my life, it would be to sit here and watch the birds. I must make it known to my husband and children that in the event I have a debilitating stroke or develop Alzheimer's, they need to place me each day in front of a window that overlooks a garden. A garden that contains a bird bath and feeders and that isn't overly manicured. I would be content.

This reminds me of Pops. Pops was an old man who lived with his family two houses away from us in Howard Beach (a suburb of NYC, in Queens) where I grew up. There were no houses across the street from us. There was a ten foot or so wide strip of sandy soil between the street and the fence that marked the back of the Big Bow Wow parking lot. Pops would go to that area across the street from his house each morning with a coffee can filled with bird seed. He would scatter it on the ground with his hand. Then he would sit at the window and watch the house sparrows and starlings come and eat it. He did this every day. I remember there came a time when he couldn't go out to scatter the seed anymore, but he still sat at the window. I believe his family members continued to put the seed out for him, but I don't recall seeing them do so. I do remember at least one time when I scattered the seed for Pops. I don't recall if my mother suggested I go over and ask if I could, or I was already outside and the neighbor invited me to do it. Regardless, it was a special privilege! I do remember my mother telling me when I went out to walk our dog, to look up at the window (it was one of those large bay windows that they put in raised ranches in the 1970s) and smile and wave at Pops. I did that often. He would always wave back. Until one day he didn't. He was still sitting there, I would wave, but he didn't wave back. He looked somehow different. It wasn't too long after that that he was no longer there to wave to.

Reflecting back on this now, I realize that was good advice my mother gave to me. We can, in even a small way, pay attention to someone and let them know that we see them. Simple, yet powerful.

Julia Cameron on Blooming Where You're Planted

On July 4, I wrote about not feeling "at home" in my community and compared it to the Parable of the Sower. Listing my questions, doubts and uncertainty, I ended by stating that I would look more into this topic. I read today in Julia Cameron's book, The Sound of Paper, this paragraph:

"It is difficult to commit to living where we are, how we are. It is difficult and it is necessary. In order to make art, we must first make an artful life, a life rich enough and diverse enough to give us fuel. We must strive to see the beauty in where we are planted, even if we are planted somewhere that feels very foreign to our own nature. In New York, I must work to connect to the parts of the city that feed my imagination and bring me a sense of richness and diversity instead of mere overcrowding and sameness. In California, my friend must work to do the same. If we are not willing to work in this way, we become victims. If we become victims, we first become choiceless and then become voiceless. Our art dries up at the root. We must, as the elders advise us, bloom where we are planted. If we later decide that we must be transplanted, that our roots are not in soil rich enough for our spirits, at least we have tried."

Not speaking of the parable, but speaking about how I often feel, these words from Julia encourage me to do what I wrote I must do. Make sure my roots are growing and that I am flourishing to the best of my ability. Seeing God in all things because he certainly is there. I have been blessed with so much. I live in a suburban neighborhood, but when I am in the back garden or sitting on the back porch, it is easy to imagine I am in the country. I am so thankful for that.

Me in my backyard. Photo by Corina S. Alvarezdelugo