Sometimes, yes, if I want tomatoes I need to pluck the hornworms off the stems. If I want a decent cabbage crop, I've got to time the row covers, the season, and watch for moths. But for the most part, this is what the garden has taught me: to keep a watchful eye in my head but that my interference, for the most part, is unnecessary. I can let the tomato and lettuce volunteers grow where they plant themselves, watch them make the most of some intuitive alchemy of space and soil, arriving yards and yards away from where I planted them the year before.
The garden has taught me that I can love order and organization as much as I want, but that it only goes so far outside my back door. The garden has taught me to cultivate a certain amount of grudging fondness for the unknown and a little bit of love for blowsy disorder.