Time and thyme

I often feel that I don't have enough time for writing. I also often feel that I spend so much time trying to write, thinking about writing, wishing I could write, and wishing I had more time to write that not a lot else gets done around here.

This morning, after a very brief and mostly unsatisfactory free write, I headed outside to work in the garden. I started out by applying some very old fish fertilizer (it's had a lot of time to sit in the shed, and I'm not sure it's even still effective). Then I headed to my local gardening source and picked up some more herb starts, a couple of Tuscany Roma tomato plants (if I get even one tomato from them, it will be a miracle), and 12 bags of compost.

I didn't buy any more thyme, but I'm hoping that six plants (plus one lemon thyme) will get my family through the spring and summer.

Now it is all in or on the ground. While I was out digging holes and spreading mulch, I thought about May Sarton. Years ago, I read Journal of a Solitude—and it's only in the past few weeks that I've realized or admitted that I've held that up as the model life, and I haven't come even close.

In the Journal, here is a typical day: Wake up, write (tea or coffee and breakfast at some point, if I remember correctly). Read the mail. Respond to letters. Then head outside after lunch and garden all afternoon. Friends may stop by. What a perfect day! And we're talking about most days, for a year.

I'm remembering this from reading the book more than two decades ago, and I may be missing some of the details, but this is what has stayed with me: write and garden. And I rarely get there.

Maybe tonight I'll write a little. Maybe in September I'll see some plum tomatoes.

How do you find time to write? (I've asked before, and I'll keep asking.) What's your favorite time to write?

What's your perfect day—for every day?