“My footing uncertain, I round the back of the barn, up one steep slope of crusted snow, aiming for patches of dirt, already cognizant that coming back down will be harder. My ice cleats are somewhere, buried in the truck, but I’ve been reluctant to put them to use. It’s too early, isn’t it? Hell no, this last gasp of the season we might call “snow gardening” shouldn’t require so much extraordinary effort. I walk on my heels, hammering impressions into the crunchy landscape, demanding better traction. Part denial, part quizzical testing of my own powers of balance, and agility, I’m not sure exactly what I’m doing. Looking for burlap in some nether region of storage? I stop by a huge old maple, pondering the somewhat blue, somewhat adulterated cloud formations criss-crossing the sky. Heavy rain predicted for tomorrow, and who knows what this will do to further confound the planned landscapes I inhabit. I can only focus on the job at hand. Not un-similar to yesterday’s romp. I’ll keep working until I’m unable to find my plants. In Champlain valley gardens, closer to the humming metropolis of Burlington, It’s still been possible to weed. The tough, stringy grasses that invade late season perennial beds have been hoping we’ll just go away. But it’s a balmy day, in the forties, & I find that we are still able to hedge clip, dig though soil warmed by the sun, and uproot such unwelcome invaders. Around 2 pm, we return to the truck, for lunches packed in wax bags, and steamy, sweet tea poured precariously, from a thermos. Despite the moderate temperatures, our phone batteries have lost power due to cold, & our audio books arrested, mid-drama. It’s a slight disappointment, not unfamiliar, to those who work outdoors. Our client emerges from his not-so-humble abode, with a genuine “It’s good to see you!”. I have an equally genuine fondness for tycoons, who have pulled themselves up by their own boot-staps. I’ve learned to tell the difference. “Hey,” I yell back. He is readying to get back into his current model Audi. His handsome black, cashmere coat and formal business wear do not diminish my respect for what I imagine he is, given how heart-felt his greeting hits me, here, where I stand in my grubby attire, which I also consider to be the uniform of my elevated, albeit practical station in his life. He needs me as much as I need him, and either of us is free to terminate the relationship at any time. Not a whole lot of folks would pony up in December, a whole day of cleaning neglected designer-wrought shrub islands, like I do. Neither would many give a second thought, to the complex ironic appearance, of a self-made millionaire, next to his dead bushes. Conversely, he has no obligation to be interested in me personally. Yet, he seems curious, for reasons unknown. I think this intersection of strangers, of hirelings, of otherwise potential friends, or karmic partners, is what makes the world tick. We don’t really know what is going on, here. Maybe a hilarious cosmic joke, or a poignant reunion of former allies. Let’s be creative and imagine that everyone we meet may have been someone to us, a dog, a parent, a lover, an arch enemy, in a past life. Surely it makes the game way more fun, and mysterious. And something not to discard as flotsam at face value, but to consider, with a measured reverence, for the clockwork improbability of being exactly here, in this place, at this time. Even if nothing else happens, if no further interaction occurs, there is still the incontrovertible insistence of fate, upon our days. As one leaves in his expensive car, and one stays to enjoy the pithy resonance of the other’s catmint as it’s cut by a Japanese, serrated sickle, we both fit seamlessly, harmoniously, as if scripted by renowned Hollywood screenwriters. Shapeshifting is not owned by shamans, it is performed by diligent attention. Nothing is as it appears, and we must own that, in order to thrive. Our paltry lives are anything but. The tiny workings of our ordinary doings, keep tipping the hidden scales of love, and altering the basic mechanics of human-scale, integrity.”
