From the Gardening Journals
Political discourse rarely interests me. Hollywood gossip bores me. Sporting events hold my attention as good as any pop culture event, but when I see the monstrosity that has become athletics, the entire arena baffles me, prompting me to go into shutdown mode, unable to muster much excitement. New technology is awfully cool, but the constant tinkering by the Apple nerds frustrates me. The stock market has become a fool's game that no one can figure out, with strong evidence that it's rigged. Popular economics is driven by belief that printing money produces prosperity.
Then there's the garden. My plot of land, my efforts, my food. I can touch it, I can pick it, I can trust it. I can't touch my money in a mutual fund statement, and I can't even get it without giving 72 hours notice, and I can't even know for sure that it's there. Just ask the Madoff investors.
In the garden, I am reduced to my proper size. I can sense (touch, see, smell) as much as is proper to my station in life as a man: a single unit in a large world that escapes my grasp.
