One of the happier aspects of the fall season in the northern hemisphere is the sudden urge we get to plant bulbs. Having just moved into a new home, with a tiny garden that is bravely trying to survive on a layer of builders’ rubble, I have to admit that this urge was accompanied by considerable misgivings as to the survival chances of a few daffodil bulbs in such hostile terrain. But hope springs eternal, so I took off to the garden center and carefully chose my bulbs.
That, for a while, was as far as my good intentions went. The bulbs sat in the bags I had bought them in, and I engaged with the world in a variety of other ways—a bit like prayer can be, really. The good intentions are there, and even some degree of preparation. But when push comes to shove, almost anything, however trivial, can intervene and claim a higher place among our priorities.
Then, one morning, I was reading Anne Lamott’s This article appears in November 5 2007.
