How often do you think about the passing of time?
When Hugh and I are strolling about town, me hoisting his increasingly heavy frame in a front facing carrier, we’re frequently greeted by those we walk past.
Americans like to talk about how hard we work.
Hugh is 7 and a half months old and my garden is ripe within the heyday of summer.
Instead, Justin often proudly remarks that it’s the most productive and healthy garden I’ve (we’ve) ever grown.
Daily life is frequently driven by our imaginings of present bliss and future success.
I have a son.
A garden can lift you up or break you down, and this year, our garden has succeeded at doing both.
The garden really comes into its own by early July.
I water, examine, assess, and enjoy my garden daily, and yet it wasn’t until I started editing these photos snapped two weeks ago that I realized how much had changed in a short amount of time.
I walked into the house this morning and casually mentioned to Justin that everything in the garden was “looking good...so far”.
The summer garden is in its final days.
I know that my garden is a living, breathing entity, a “creature” that will blossom, thrive (or not), and eventually die.
Given the heat of 2015, our yard and garden is rapidly approaching end of July appearances, for better and for worse.
When people ask me what I’ve done in 2015, my answers might sound less than adventurous to you (running and gardening), but the details in each of those “tasks” are greater, and more complicated, than those two words.
The calendar says early April, but garden activity has felt three weeks ahead of the actual date for all of 2015.
In my two-ish seasons of planting last year, I never found a balance between the whimsical and poetic dreams of my aspirational garden, and the realities of planning and structure.
I edited and uploaded the images for this post almost four weeks ago.
It’s bizarre how we wrap tasks in an artificial scaffolding of lists and timelines, knowing that, inevitably, a surprising gust of wind will blow through, crumbling your weak scaffolding as you scramble to rearrange timelines and to-dos.
June in the garden: a time when anxious planning transforms into fleeting optimism.
We moved in February, leaving behind two years of garden experimentation at our rental house.
I’m usually not the type of person who notices cars in my daily life, but if I lived in Vancouver, British Columbia, I’m pretty sure that I’d recognize one of Victory Gardens’ trucks driving around town.
It’s happened again.
The past few days aside, May and early June felt like summer in the Pacific Northwest.
After a long winter hiatus, when I first picked up the little green notebook in which I record gardening notes, I flipped to see when the last entry was.
In the past year, amidst unpacking, painting, gardening, work, and trips near and far, Portland's weather shifted according to the seasons: Summer involved three months of surreally beautiful dry weather, Fall brought unexpected color change, and Winter, a season I was prepared to "survive", was mild – gentler than previous years', I've heard.
Our modern interest in homesteading is more than a fleeting pursuit.
As July turned to August, I didn't share a garden update because much remained the same.
I didn’t know it at the time, but the day I took photos of our blooming sunflower turned out to be the only day the sunflower looked healthy and strong.
June was a productive month for our 4x4 garden, the multiple container plants scattered about our driveway, and the flowers in both the front and back yards.
Like many cities, Portland contains numerous neighborhoods.
When a family member or friend visits your new city for the first time, excitement often mixes with nervous energy.
The last time I wrote about gardening and general backyard maintenance, I was still cleaning things up and progress inched along.
A few weeks ago, I planned a bike ride that took me from our house in Portland's Sunnyside neighborhood down to the Crystal Springs Rhododendron Garden and back, roughly 10 miles in total.
To me, one of the most exciting parts of home rentership, aside from doing laundry whenever I want and not hearing the neighbor's conversations, is having a yard.
Happy Thanksgiving to you and your family and friends.
I grew up outside of Washington, DC, before spending over four years after college in the DC area.
In May, I shared that I was gathering items to start my own fire escape garden.
I’ve noticed a common thread among the local artisans, farmers, and purveyors I most admire: they’ve each learned to accept, and even embrace, nuance and unpredictability without sacrificing the quality of their product.
For the past year I've relied almost entirely on matrix metering, with the occasional spot metering thrown in when I'm shooting food at home.
Last year, I grew several herbs from seed.
Portland is surrounded by mountains and bordered by the Columbia and Willamette Rivers.
While browsing The Die Line, I stumbled across this post and frantically started clicking around.
Temperatures climbed and kept climbing this past holiday weekend.
When we returned from our honeymoon, we faced the end of vacation woes: an empty fridge, piles of laundry, and exhaustion.
For the past few weeks, flowers resembling fuzzy orbs have been popping up everywhere.