Intentional neglect

and the harvest that follows it

It’s been a hot week here in the Pacific Northwest. And prior to this it’s been a strange summer in ways that *should not* feel strange, but do. We used to have summers like this regularly—summers where the early months of June and July would be chilly and rain-soaked, summers where you didn’t dare plan a barbecue or camping trip until after the 4^th of July without expecting to get rained out, summers where shorts felt like a luxury we couldn’t afford until August. Climate change has really impacted the summer experience out here over the last two decades.

June this year was cool and damp. We officially faced a “cabbage summer,” where the coles are happy and the corn is stunted. By July I was watering the garden regularly, but there are always little corners that get missed. One of those contained by hops bines. I moved them last year so that they would get more direct sunlight, which they adore. Their bines tangle and twine through the metal fence I’ve given them. They would grow ten feet tall or more if given the chance.

But my hops bines were…. brown? Stunted? What the hell was going on?

I looked up the various causes, thinking it was a disease, a pest, something sinister. In the end it seemed most likely they were parched. And, when examining the irrigation plan, it’s clear they were reliant entirely on the rains which stopped abruptly many weeks ago.

So it was me. I messed that up.

There are loads of examples of neglect in this year’s garden. The weeds have overtaken the strawberry beds. The raspberries are drooping from a lack of support. Even the apple trees have too much fruit weighing down their limbs, something I should have tended to at the start of the fruiting season. Some days I wake up with the best of intentions to get out there and get things done, but with starting two indie presses, managing my wife’s new work schedule, spending time with the kids, and maybe showing up for my day job once in a while, the hours in the day seem to spend themselves too quickly for any time in the garden managing big projects.

By the end of each day when I *don’t* manage the garden, I internally berate myself for being a bad farmer/gardener. I lay the blame on thick. I pass by those brown hops leaves and feel a pang of guilt that I let them suffer and die because I was lazy or overwhelmed or spent too much time doing things that weren’t in perfect alignment with my goals.

As a matter of chance, I wandered by those hops bines just yesterday afternoon. The sun was low enough that I could spend some time with them in the shade and not sweat out all the moisture in my body. I lifted a few crackled leaves and marveled at what hid beneath them.

Hops flowers. Little cones. Some small, many thick and lush, all of them deeply scented with the heady musk of citrus, fresh grass, and piney bitterness. And it wasn’t just one set, it was cluster after cluster, long groups of them, the bines twisted and heavy with the flowery harvest to come. I ducked inside, grabbed a wire basket, and plucked flowers until I ran out of space to contain them. There are still at least two more baskets of flowers to collect.

Some of my choices to neglect parts of the garden were intentional. Some of them just happened, and I didn’t interfere. Amid the chaos and the self-deprecating narrative in my head, the garden, ever resilient, chugged along quite nicely without my input. Sure, weeds flowered and spread, but the pollinators like them just as much as they like the things I plant on purpose. And this year’s harvest of hops is a testament to nature’s independence, even in cultivated gardens like my own.

Listen, some days we cannot show up the way we want. Breathe deep, friends. The hops bines will survive a little neglect. So will the other things in our lives.

If you’re wondering about me brewing beer next, rest assured I have neither the time for “another hobby” nor the ability to drink all the beer I would end up brewing, so I’m working hard at convincing the next-door neighbor to brew beer in his garage and share-sies. I’ll supply the hops.

Your trans friend,

Robin