Thursday, July 7

I like to

water my garden.  Something simple and clean and earthy about water falling on leaves and the spattering sound the droplets make as life hits root.  Something wonderful about wet concrete butting up against dry, thirsty grass.  Something good about the cool evening hour and the sound of settling silence when the wind stops blowing and the birds nestle in. Peaceful.

There are little bugs on some of the plants.  I won't pretend they don't gross me out, but most I ignore.  They're just going about, like I am, fussing and fixing and getting ready for another day to close.  Some I don't ignore, particularly the kind that eat my stretching plants.  Those get squished beneath an uncaring shoe (or in between some pliers, but only if Eric's doing the pruning).  Cleansing.

I could draw a thousand lines between life and my garden, simple parables about growing and stretching, weeding and pruning, squashing the bad bugs and letting others go, making room.  But I don't have to.  You get them too.  The basics of living and letting live, of sowing and reaping, of seasons and change.  Intrinsic.

Outside the night is creeping in, a gray shadow falling in behind the sinking sun.  Mountains to the west hide the falling rays, instead a brilliant spray of rosy clouds and faltering blue fade out before the darkness takes hold.  I know the stars are shining there, even though I can't see them, and later they'll poke through like diamond eyes upon a resting world.  Today will fold its weary wings and turn into tomorrow.  Renewed.

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