Faith in your work

The other day I was riding my 1983 Trek 400 singlespeed conversion over to the East Side of Providence. The East Side is the fancy-pants side of town. That's where you'll find RISD and Brown and fancy-pants shopping and folks who have been to Federal Hill "maybe once or twice". It's basically the Cambridge of Providence. Unlike Cambridge, however, the East Side of Providence has a hill. A big, steep, nasty F-ing hill. If you take the wrong approach, as I did, the effect will be less of biking up a hill and more akin to slamming into the side of a hill.

I dragged myself up the street, past throngs of pink-haired art students, cursing my existence. Never cross the river onto Waterman Street on a bicycle. Coming back down the hill I made a similar mistake by taking College Street, which is probably even steeper than Waterman. And, like all good steep streets, it has a stop light at a busy intersection right at the bottom (marking the first time I've ever considered getting off my bike to walk it down a hill). The light was red, and as I shifted my weight as far back as possible, and carefully yet firmly grasped the brakes, I couldn't help but think about how I'd just installed new levers, realigned and adjusted these very brakes upon which my life now depended. It was, if not the only moment, certainly the most stark occasion in which I've placed my life directly into the hands of my work. After a brief moment of panic, I took the zen approach; I know how to adjust brakes, these brakes will stop me. They did.

I've been thinking about that moment of zen recently, as I hunch over my seed pots, willing the pepper seeds to germinate. Am I doing something wrong? There are so many variables. When you're working at a desk, clicking a mouse, there is rarely life in the balance. But I'm trying to help make life in the garden, in these little seed pots. It's easy to overthink things when you don't know what you're doing.

Perhaps I'll stop fretting over the pepper seeds when I sow the outdoor garden later this week. On Sunday I picked up a truck full of composted horse manure from the farm, and it now is lying in a thick layer on top of my plot across the street. I'm going to go rake it in today before it starts raining again, and after a little more landscaping I'll sow my lettuces, peas, and squash. What will happen? I have no clue. But maybe it's best I try and be mindful of that zen moment on College Street--what will happen will happen, I've done my best.



Next up: I review "Food Matters" by Mark Bittman (early returns point to: delicious!)