Thinning the lavender seedlings in their minuteness, not even an inch high, it smelled for all the world like distant fields in Europe, purple and baked and ancient, and I thought, "This one, this one is the best yet." Smiling there at the morning, and saying it of the day. Except it seems that I keep saying this, but truly, of the morning in its unexpected warmth or briskness, or of the wind as it finally makes a harbor of an afternoon. Let us add this to the short list of truths we hear ourselves speak, then smile in agreement at whomever must have spoken it.
Yes, indeed. This one, this day is the best yet.
The deer fence is up, nearly a quarter of the orchard is in, the tomatoes are seeded, the first month of beds I have gone over once, and the ginger just arrived from Hawaii. And, most importantly, while the wind came and went, the high tunnel stood what a number of trees couldn't.