Hell is empty and all the devils are in my garden. Don’t despair.
Summer self-loathing was triggered weeks ago by kinked hoses and endless swearing. The heat and drought were beating me down. Crabgrass and broadleaf plantains couldn’t care less. Ariel, in Shakespeare’s The Tempest, was right. “Hell is empty and all the devils are here.” It’s not unusual to feel a garden’s burden by mid-late Summer in…