“During the recent hot spell, I stayed home scrubbing mildew from my wood shed walls, then painting, carefully, layers of mildew resistant acrylic onto them. When you’re remodeling semi-outdoor spaces, weather can get in the way, or pull you backwards. But being pulled backwards is a facet of life. Your best ideas don’t always coincide with your ability to act. Just as when you find yourself inspired to prune a bush, not during the recommended season. People often ask me - should I? Without fail, I’ll dutifully recite the proper protocol, & follow it with an emphatic: “go for it”. Why? Because we are not creatures of perfection. We can’t always do what we need to do, in real time. The imagination must take over, for in the dream time, anything is possible if you believe hard enough. I do. So do you. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise. What you believe, is possible. So start now. Time frame is nearly irrelevant. We mustn’t get hung up on immediate results. Pure intention is everything. The piercing bird calls that sever our mental chatter, are calls to arms. Do it anyway. Nature self-corrects. It’s only the judgment of others, that makes us feel wrong. Out on the horizon of what will be, is a wonderful question. And almost never, does it contain self condemnation, unless we bend to the random harsher voices within, which rarely belong in our psyche, and which certainly come, uninvited. Think about that. Oh, I admit I am daily enamored by near strangers, who counteract my idiocies of fear. Who far exceed my lame expectations that no one should be nice to me. In the revelation of flower gardens, at the portals of violets, adjacent clumps of rotted leaf matter, and fallen peony petals, one place advances, as sacred as stone. This is the place of kindness. An offer of water, a banana, a pair of Milano cookies. A soft spoken thank-you, a sigh of appreciation, a smile. In my small world of digging, uprooting, replacing tender life forms of color and vibrancy to a location of greater visibility; as I sweat, and curse, and laugh, and push harder to achieve a goal of harmony, herein lie the tendrils of poignant renewal. As one eccentric seer once named it, I am on a mission best described as “cosmic cleanup crew”. I could aspire to nothing less noble than dirt worker, an eye cast toward heaven, framed by clouds, and the fragrance of gas plant, or recently cut chive, while my belly says “lunch”. I’ll put my serrated sickle down, and eat from my cooler, some hastily assembled sandwich, of cucumber, and cheddar. A tractor driving by, to pick up limbs, or another in the field, only add to the day’s interest. We’ve fluffed, clipped, and peeled dead blossoms from a row of ornamental show plants. We’ve raked, and searched, and determined what needs air, and fertilization, and love. Some blooms will go to a wedding in Arlington. Some will end up on a local dinner table. Many will fall in place. It’s impossible to save every savory item. As with sumptuous dinners, not every morsel will be tasted. This, again, is the waste and glory of bounty. Soon enough, our winter costume play will be demanding a whole new wardrobe of coats, protections, and diminishing returns. I could not have one without the other. Thank you, cohorts, for playing with me, in the sun. Tomorrow I’ll play with you under a darkening sun. For one in its heyday, informs, the other, in its silent sleeping phase of reformation, and resurrection.”
