Trimilawn Farm..."And what you thought you came for.... "

I don't know about you; but, unless something is clearly sign-posted, I get disoriented.  

I don't know if things have gotten less subtle and more obvious as I've gotten older or if things were always pretty obvious and I'm just less dense.  Either way, I should know that when setting intentions, life has a way of honoring them in a very basic and daily way and that my internal compass is naturally attuned to a particular path.  I just get mighty curious about all the other paths and by-ways and sometimes set off in another direction--which isn't to say that it's the wrong direction.  

I just really love to bushwack--A LOT.  Fortunately, the old compass is still working and I've come to trust it to bring me back to "true north".   

So, on this particular Saturday, I went to the Sligo Farmer's Market.  I don't get there as often in the summer because I grow my own vegetables; but, I was between lettuce crops and having guests for dinner and wanted the "good stuff"--organic, freshly picked and laced with colorful edible flowers.  And if you know me, well, you know I hate to shop, run errands, or as they used to say here, in West of Ireland, "go out for the messages."

My basic Motus Operandi when I do have to "go for the messages" is to, harness myself with a pair of blinders and get in and out of town as quickly as possible. I just find aisles of STUFF daunting beyond words.  

But, having an excuse to go to the Farmer's Market is a treat.  First of all, it's outdoors!  AND they form their jauntily colored awnings into an enclosure like a courtyard -- No aisles!  

I always find what I'm looking for; but, I've also come to expect the unexpected. And on this particular Saturday, my attention was drawn to a lovely display of potted herbs.  I confess that I assumed they would be primarily culinary and I grow my own; so, I was "just looking"...  But, on the slate next to their display was such an extensive list, I was stopped in my tracks and then, the Proprietess asked if she could help me...  

This is Ellie and Brian Spellman of Trimilawn Farm Herbs!  They grow herbs for which I can't even find seeds!!!  Not only do they plant these wonderous beauties, they coax them into magnificent vibrantly healthy plants.  They literally have every herb I've ever dreamed of growing.  You'll find everything they grow here:  http://trimilawnfarm.com/. 

And I really  enjoyed my conversation with them as much as selecting over a dozen new companions for "Mully" and the rest of the herb gang who've moved into my garden.   Ellie really knows her "stuff"--not processed and preserved STUFF crammed into SUPER-markets--but, the real gritty "stuff" of herbs, of soil, of medicinal properties, of companion planting, of biodynamics...   Brian probably does, too; but, he was busy in the van trying to fill my order as quickly as I was adding to it. 

"Mully" 

Of course, in my eagerness to adopt these lovely wee plants, I'd forgotten that I would need a place to plant them.  This meant breaking new ground, adding compost, and manure and making sure they were protected from the winds off the northwest Atlantic (just like the rest of my garden).   This can be an arduous process as the soil here is a thick and compacted clay. But, even in the midst of summer when I'm trying to keep up with harvesting, canning, and freezing vegetables, this became a deeply contemplative process.   

There is nothing more alive and miraculous than a plant that has been handed to you by the hands that turned the soil, planted the seed and observed it breaking out into the light.   There is no other way to honor such a plant than to do the same.

On this particular Saturday, I went to the Farmer's Market for a handful of lettuce and I returned with a garden full of "messages". 

...And what you thought you came for

Is only a shell, a husk

 of meaning

From which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled

If at all.   Either you had no purpose

Or the purpose is beyond the end you figured

And is altered in fulfillment.

T.S. Eliot from 

I

Little Gidding