“I leave the house with a fully packed truck: wheel barrow, buckets & tools; a thermos of nettle tea, two slices of buttered bread, and chick pea spread; a phone, a tee shirt, an empty mug for coffee, in case I decide to stop for that; a possible plan to visit with an old friend, at the tail end of the day. These weeks of outdoor work are truly something I look forward to, the silence of the valleys along with unsolved questions, about the amount of work and the fickleness of weather, that may cut my day short, all of it rolling, unfolding, surprising, and demanding. Like most people, I don’t exactly know how I got here. However hard I try to shape my reality to certain ideas, there are always wild card elements, that seem to take me far, far from where I ever thought I’d be. I want to understand my world, and yet, there is no way to adopt a mental grasp without feeling the failure of it, and the fall back position that must always remain steady in my heart. I am a simple reflection of what I witness, and the honesty of that response is the only thing I can actually know. We are all doing our best, no matter who declines us, or argues with our positions, or neglects to pick up on what is obviously offered, for the good of the soul. Life, on the surface, is extremely complex, like a jumbled road map that is constantly rewriting our way, while reinventing itself, like a jack of all trades, and master of none. The slow greening of the hills, appears magically, majestically, then suddenly seems to be rushing. From the gardener’s perspective, there are branches nearing bloom, and dead stuff to cut out, and too much to manage, all coming at once. Landing at my newest job by 9:30 am, I’ve driven the mile long driveway to an empty house, and pull in, with a few moments to spare, for assessment. At first, I can’t see it, and won’t see it, until my work is well underway. I’ve learned to start anywhere. To plunge in somewhere, just for the sake of getting past the beginning. I get hired, to make these decisions, and I’m no longer shy about taking things on. Nothing is worse, than having no usefulness, and no purpose. A feeling that is erroneous at root, but common, and easily mended, by putting on the right attitude of diligent attention, often to the smallest thing, for starters. I see old ornamental grasses, too long & dry, that deserve clipping, in honor of the new growth, that is struggling upwards. Rose runners impinging on walls, yarrow that’s gone into the rudbeckia, lilac branches that will hit the mowers, edges that need definition, and their curves reset. I feel the happiness of chipmunks, curious about a human presence lingering into their territory, sitting low next to their dens, and digging into their grounds. I call out to each one, calling “Chippy!”. For my happiness seems to depend on the regularity of creatures, who can tell me I belong. It’s a day that’s dodged the rain, and the frost, a day of grace, and unity for a neighborhood that looks to make the most of such days. We call it spring. May it last, a lifetime, and may mine earn at least, a few decades more. Though I turn off my phone, for hours at a time, at break I pick a shady spot, and reactivate it, and poke at it, just in case a message might come thru. But none do. I’m alone, undetected, and this luxury is rare, like a fine, aged wine, a freedom I remember from childhood. I may be annoyed by the harsh angles of the yard’s terrain, which makes me work hard to keep my full wheelbarrow upright, and not a runaway, but my muscles are made for this, & I could almost cry for the strange occupations we adopt, only to maintain this kind of sanity. The sun on my skin brings a blush, and a sharpness to my cheekbones, that I see reflected in the truck windows, as I trudge back up there, for a drink. The mulch pile, I’ve hardly dented. But I’ll return tomorrow, having done all the hard bits, today.”
