“Turning the sharp, steep left onto Hidden Ridge Rd., a deja vu began to creep its way into my consciousness & I won’t recount all the gory details here, but I had been there before, either in a dream or as another me. The shadow of a ghost, an abuser, a madly compromised individual, the kind who leaves destruction in his wake, still lingered, though he’d sold it, but not so long ago; and a residue lingered, in the air, like pesticide or an unidentifiable malaise. As we drove thru the dark alley of trees, catching glimpses of a towering land, so misused & conquered by wealth, I felt my hackles rise, and fall. This was not our destination. Further on, we lifted out of the density, curving right along a gentle curve, up and onto an adjacent height of land, more bucolic, and peaceful. These bizarre juxtapositions are part and parcel of the rural topographies we live in, where the old, and the new juggle together, and ancient byways cut off from former villages have lost their stature. The energy shifts can be devastating, but within a generation or two, these dead spots b become the norm, and attract a whole new breed of inhabitants. And who would know? Such places often turn insular, and are legally posted to keep others out. It’s likely a major portion of our state that is now roped off. However, the reverse can be true, in some weird way. The magic pushed underground doesn’t go away. It realigns within territories of deep knowing, where humans still know how to use their native intelligence, take a stand and nurture biological existence. Anyway, we unloaded the tools, and waited for some instructions; the sky, not ominous or well lit, sort of non-committal. I can’t let my past throw daggers into my present anymore. There’s too much going on that needs a truly fresh eye, be it viewed from betwixt the leafy branches of the tall snake root or the low growing foam flower. There’s so much to remove. We needed all the shovels, today. He came out after his calls, with a question. “Do you need brownies?” he said. Each crew member answered in their own way, in the affirmative. “How big is the pan?” I blurted out, not really thinking about what I was saying. It gets like that, as the body, the mind, and the mouth are not in full cooperation. I was crouching next to a circle of transplants, trying to pry extra dirt into and around the roots. I was thinking about the hose, and how to wrangle it over or whether I’d have to use watering cans. I’d just dug up a treasure of allium bulbs; they’d need new holes. The coral bells would have to move, and a blanket flower, to make room for an incoming false indigo “Baptisia”. It wasn’t lunch, yet, and in fact our policy of keeping our phones in truck was making it very difficult for us to know what time it was. I suspect that some old wiring about “pride cometh before a fall” played into my confusion regarding the brownies, but I can’t be certain. In the end, we got rained on, and did the last hour, wet. It was perfect for the plants, muddy for us. Rolling out of there, cracking the seal of a carbonated beverage between my thighs, I had no problem with intrusive thoughts. A job well done is worth more than the thousand awkward words used to try to describe it. The road home, a familiar set of potholes, slightly altered by a week’s worth of steamy downpours. A route of profound beauty: lavish and conflicted, and determined, and unable, to outlast its heyday.”
