As I repeated my sporadic ritual sacrifice of innocent bedding plants to the god of no gardening skills this weekend, Nancy Schwartz came to mind.

Scarcely a spring time passes that I don’t think of her kneeling in front of one of her flower beds on South 13th Street, barely visible behind a riotously resplendent display of irises, lilies and other blooming plants of all species and description.

Nancy made gardening seem effortless, her flower beds springing to life and unfurling their multihued blossoms each year as if by magic.

Of course, those that knew her realized the “magic” started way back in January with Nancy poring over seed catalogs to see what she might add to the spring collection.

And the magic continued with Nancy spending endless hours outside all spring and summer, on her knees planting, weeding and transplanting, with a giant cup of ice tea at her elbow, or walking the yard in the cool of every evening, dragging a water hose behind her.

It’s no wonder my gardening sisters made Nancy’s house a place to visit every time they were in town, as happy to receive her wisdom and gardening lore as they were the cuttings and seeds she so generously shared.

I wanted to want to join in on that exchange – to accept my own plastic bag full of fragile plant babies and seeds that I would lovingly transplant and tend until they grew as lush and beautiful as Nancy’s garden.

But I just did not want to.

I know. That statement is anathema – heresy, even – to all you wonderful gardeners who are so devoted to the process.

Don’t get me wrong. I love visiting beautiful gardens. I even like how my flower bed looks right after my occasional clumsy attempt to dig holes and plop in some poor, hapless bedding plants. The problem is, the

The problem is, the next time I notice, it will be weed-choked, every plant dry and crispy because I have forgotten to water, or gasping for breath in a soupy bog because I have turned on the sprinkler and left it running for 24 hours straight.

In total oblivion, I will walk past my garden at least twice a day, every day – completely preoccupied with what’s to be done at the office or what’s on the supper menu at home – and not see my poor plants at all.

It’s not that I mean to be neglectful. I can just be totally unmindful of my surroundings.

(Like when my husband had new siding installed when I was out of town and I did not notice until I came across the bill on the dining room table – after walking past the total transformation three times while unloading my car.)

My daughter has a little bit of that same problem and is often reminded by her boyfriend to “be intentional.” Which sounds like a

Which sounds like a kinder version of my mother’s frequent admonition to “pay attention to what you’re doing!” – as I stared dreamily into space while the dishwater overran the sink or slammed headlong into some immovable object while walking down the street and chattering away with my sisters.

Being aware of this shortcoming, I do try to make a more conscious effort to get out of my head and into the moment.

My weekend gardening project seemed the perfect opportunity to do just that by focusing on every sensory aspect of the experience – the feel of the damp earth sifting through my fingers, the redolent fragrance of each delicate blossom, the warmth of the sun and the sound of the soft breeze sifting through the trees.

But instead, I spent the whole time daydreaming about Nancy Schwartz’s garden.

And what a great topic it would make for a newspaper column.