June 4

Villetale Haute, a Misty Mountain.

It’s raining outside again, on and off showers. It’s gray and misty; a misty mountain we dwell on today.  Yesterday, it even hailed just after I had planted peppers, while assembling the low tunnel to protect them from extreme weather, like hail. I quickly scrounged to pull the plastic over the low tunnel frame to protect them, my hair drenched, made longer and darker by nature’s tears and my shirt soaked, sticking to my skin. Are these nature’s tears of joy or sadness, I wonder?

Peppers saved from hail just in time with plastic cover. 

Tomatoes protected in high tunnel and peppers protected in low tunnel. 

I asked myself many questions yesterday actually. With the mercurial weather, the unpredictable showers, the warm afternoons, the still-cold(?!) evenings, I wonder if Villetale Haute is still hospitable towards me. And to top off the uninviting work of the heavens of Villetale Haute above, are the caterpillar hairs on land. Apparently they fall from these caterpillars who live in these cobweb-beehive-nest-looking things in the pine trees that make you itchy when made contact with your skin. The worse thing is you can’t see them, so you can’t really avoid them. Somehow they’ve landed all over my torso, perhaps first onto my shirt while working outside, and I’ve been feeling itchy while working in the garden, while sleeping, while eating breakfast.

Thankfully with our lavender essential oil and some olive oil, the itchiness is better today than yesterday, though the little red, mini-flee bite looking rashes are unsightly. I’m working really hard not to scratch so they go away and don't leave scars. This is my second encounter with these horrible hairs. The first was on my hands earlier last month. I must have touched some soil infected with the hairs and the palm of my hands were on fire for a few days. Suddenly, the countryside life of southern France I had envisioned is not all rainbows and butterflies. The butterflies we have. I’m still waiting for the rainbows.

Perhaps the weather is a reflection of my inner-landscape. Or, perhaps, I am becoming more inter-connected with the natural world around me. When Mother Nature cries in rain, I feel like crying too, for the torturous caterpillar hairs, for all the rocks in the garden I have to rake out (we are on a mountain of the French Alps after all), for the lack of high-speed Internet, for the upcoming family graduations and birthday parties I will miss and have missed this Spring back home in Los Angeles.

Newly planted baby beets next to arugula and chard. 

But, this morning it was bright and sunny like Summer, the warmth on my back as I planted beets was delightful, my itchiness was better, until the clouds broke with rain, again.  Make up your mind! I shout at the sky.

This weather pattern has been typical of this season’s Spring. My fellow mountain dwellers here tell me this is a bit atypical. As a Californian, this type of weather is extremely atypical to my entire comprehension of the word weather. As a Californian, the word weather means 72 degrees Fahrenheit and sunny, basically everyday of the year except for those very few days of rain in “Winter”.

Gosh, how spoiled I have been, with weather, with high-speed Internet connection, with having most my family and friends only a car drive away, or at least in the same country. And now, to be offered a peaceful life away from the crazy city, to live closer to nature, to live more authentically, more genuinely, what I wanted, and even in southern France, every Garden Gallivanter’s dream, right?! Make up your mind! I shout at myself.

When I work in the garden, I often miss teaching my students. My gardeners, I called them. And today, after lunch, I suddenly remembered this book I had brought with me, a little book, a little gift with big meaning from my Harlan gardeners, brother and sister of a sweet family, both my garden students at Larchmont Charter School.

My little green book of magic. 

It’s called, “Mindfulness in the Garden: Zen Tools for Digging in the Dirt,” by Zachiah Murray. Perfect little green book to open on a rainy afternoon. Perfect way to reflect on this inner-storm.

In the book, there is a forward by Thich Nhat Hanh, the wise Vietnamese Zen Buddhist monk and peace activist.

“Our emotions and perceptions are seeds within us. If we water the anger and fear within us, they will grow like the weeds. Alternatively, we can water the flowers of compassion, understanding, and love,” he writes. 

In the spirit of Thich Nhat Hanh, I choose to water the flowers of compassion today, thanking the Villetale Haute heavens for a rainy afternoon so that I could open this book and sit down for a moment of mindful coffee and reflection. Thank you to my Harlan Gardeners who gifted me this book some time ago and whom I remember so fondly in the school garden. I hope you are both happy and gardening still.




*photos by Tiffanie Ma