But It's My Path...

Just Kidding.

A Trio of Violets in a reclaimed Oak frame

I’ve been journaling outside, my bare feet dangling over the edge of the sauna deck. Before me there are Spice Bushes, a vacant chicken coop, and a garden that has already begun to nourish us. The Spice Bushes are a bit wild as branches stretch and squiggle toward the sun. This morning I decided to take my chainsaw to the unwieldiest branches, to tidy up and let the light hit the garden bed beneath, to make an opening so I can rejoice in the edible garden beyond. The smell of the cutting is divine and so much Spice Bush remains.

There.
I feel good about my decision.
Sometimes I am more wobbly.

I haul the heavy branches toward our compost and chipping pile skipping about to avoid crushing the closed, delicate, and abundant Carolina Spring Beauty. There by the piles, a cluster of trodden upon Jack-in-the-Pulpits are holding on to dear life. And it is a dear life, what with the stripes and cloaks. I wish I always had a trowel to transplant the goodies off the path. I turn and show my teeth to the Garlic Mustard and tear it out, and beyond that more Lesser Celendine.

I scowl at the intruders.

The endlessness keeps me going. It keeps my body and mind active. It allows my knowing to evolve. I’ve moved violets into the beds from the path and the violets keep showing up. False Solomon’s Seal, too. Does anything really need me?

Up on the hill my perfect, perfect Pearl springs to life. I go up to investigate and find her torturing a chipmunk. I’ve been closing that hole every day with field stone and dirt, and every morning find my stuffing scattered about. “Hello!” I shouted into the hole previously. “Can you please move your front door? I made a path here, and your door opens right onto it. Hello?!” I don’t confess in my greeting that I knew someone lived here from the start.

Maybe I should reconsider my path.
Or build a castle around the door.

But first, there may be a death to mourn.

Undecided in my book...

Creatures in the Garden