The Saving Garden

Saves me from going completely ballistic, that is. Today's task was weeding...a lot of days' tasks really. Today I was outside the yard at roadside, I got half the length of the lot done in a bit more than an hour and then took shelter inside. Much more time and I would sunburn on the first real sunny afternoon in the entire month!

But weeding is perfect. I can destroy things I don't like to better the world of things I DO like; would that it was that simple in the rest of life, eh? I can pull out the weeds, thinking of all the things I'd like to eliminate from America's public life: bulls*** punditry, for example; phony arguments in social places I sometimes visit; oh, the list is endless.

It also provides necessary stress relief from incidences of what I call off-the-meter-crazy-making stuff that seems to be part and parcel of my ritual life. For the last couple weeks this has been on the increase. The house is full of creaks and sound and not from summer heat, either; it has been so cold here that my June-bearing strawberries will not be thinking about readiness until July! There are rustles and whispers when nobody else is home, footsteps and sounds like knocks at windows.

And worst of all, in terms of my own level of dread and misery? The smell of food cooking when I am not cooking and when no neighbors are at home. I think what this means is that someone who has died did so hankering after one last piece of strawberry shortcake, or fried chicken, or whatever ineluctable edible delicacy I am smelling. Sometimes it is a scent I cannot identify, but it always smells utterly delicious. This is true often even when I can identify it as something I don't really care for myself. Thus my dread and misery---the strength of that final craving just shakes me to my core. I have, on rare occasion, when possessing all the ingredients of an identifiable food actually cooked it up right then and there. The bliss that was eating it was both delight and relief, but then a sudden "poof" empty that followed just rocked me as hard as the fall that blew my neck disks to bits years ago. I fear establishing this as a common "rite" for the Labyrinth, sometimes the foods I smell are damn near poison to me because of food allergies. Thankfully, most of the time, noticing the scent--the very act of recognition seems to be sufficient and it vanishes away.

This sort of sensual immersion usually means the death toll in Iraq is up, or that I am missing "somebody" from my list that I carry to the Walk every couple weeks. I do not consider myself especially sensitive in psychic matters, I am continually astonished that these manifestations grab my attention by the throat. Grab and shake, you might say. It always leaves me doubting whether I am indeed fulfilling my seemingly necessary function as psycho-pomp out there, I feel inadequate to the sense of longing and loss that I feel in these occasional periods of increased manifestations.

And when I feel I am missing some beat, I am restless. So yes, the next week will see a lot of saving gardening. I have planned a new herb garden consisting mostly of artemisia types. I found the delicate "Flanders" sort of poppy seeds to plant out on the Labyrinth itself when I work it over this weekend. And maybe, just maybe, when I exhaust the restlessness in my body, my mind will shut up, too. And then I will find what I am missing, where I am failing, and I can make corrections. Yes, Gardening saves.