Tag: Gardening

Solstice

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

There are vast deposits of nature’s oddities, discarded treasure, and shiny objects tucked away in the nooks and crannies of my life. All that regenerative potential should bring joy. A sense of purpose. Right? Instead, I am bound and gagged by my own good fortune.

I’ve tried to hack free from the bonds of salvation and travel lighter, but when I manage to get rid of something, seven or eight similar items appear and repopulate the collection. Or, within days, I realize I threw away the one thing I truly needed. And this includes certain types of people.

Perhaps the solution is to want nothing and need nothing. Turn my back on all those possibilities. Grin at the fool in the broken mirror but then move on. Let shards be shards. Empty the closets, the barns, the basement, the attic. Empty the soul.

But how?

Bonfires come to mind, but there are restrictions due to the drought. And the smoke and thermal waves rising from burn piles and bombings are disturbing. The trapped gasses of humanity are slowly broiling the surface of the earth. I hate adding to the roiling disaster.

I’ve tried giving things away, but bequeathing is fraught with misunderstandings or rejection. And attempting to add organic matter, stir, and compost a lifetime supply of wheel barrels and hollow-core doors would be irreversibly toxic in its own way.

“What about burying your troubles in a deep pit?” whispers the Excavator. “Out of sight, out of mind.”

“Have digger, will dig, eh?” I elbow Infinity.

The Excavator flexes, and even though I still possess a modicum of faith, I back away.

“Go restore a riverbank or something, Ex. I’m NOT going to bury everything.”

“Not everything, darling. Be selective. Choose a few token articles or worthless people, toss them in the pit, and I’ll cover them up. You can provide my alibi.”

“I have neither the time nor the strength for that kind of discernment. Have you seen that lumber pile with all those rusty nails screaming tetanus? Even if there were seven of me, we’d have no chance. And I can’t provide your alibi. I’m mortal.”  

The Excavator lifts its Golden Bucket, and suddenly, there are endless versions of me, doubled over in the garden pulling weeds. The Jester begins a ridiculous rap.

The weeds keep winning, 
but the party’s beginning. 
Multiplicities prancing.
The Longest Light dancing. 
The Amazements are serving cocktails.

This too shall pass
So don’t sit on your ass…

Dark clouds burst into laughter above the entire assemblage. The drought has ended. And a recently dug hole the size of Texas is filling with runoff from the sweet, sweet rain.

Fallibility: The Ultimate F-Word

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

Oh, it’s so damn tempting to deny or excuse our own malice or mistakes, but this is a bad idea. Projecting failings onto enemies or loved ones doesn’t work, either. Deliberate unkindness or hidden imperfections cling to the soul and congeal into restrictive outer layers. As defensiveness dries in place, fault lines scar the surface. It often requires excruciating scraping to get back to original skin.

In my experience, it’s better to sit down and face those nasty shortcomings. I recommend having a dark beer in hand. I also make sure my Unifying Force is nearby, willing to listen and reason things through with me.

I usually lead with something like, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but lately, I may have been a little selfish, judgmental, and conniving.”

“Correct you if you’re wrong?” My Unifying Force bursts into belly-clutching gales of laughter. “Selfish, judgmental, and conniving?” She echoes my words between gasps for air. “Stop. You’re making me wet my pants.”

Sometimes, I use other words. Acknowledge other sins. But the ritual is the same. My Unifying Force hoots and snorts in mirth.

This is not infectious laughter. Nothing about this is funny. I don’t know why the Universe finds my confessions humorous, and I’m never sure whether to feel shame or claim vindication. I sit through the cosmic hilarity, setting my intentions, breathing, and yes, glaring and sweating a little.

The storm begins to subside, and I contemplate some form of forgiveness in exchange for another day. But I feel small. Diminished. I’m tempted to drown my sorrows, hop a freight train, or throw my puny body over a cliff. This is like transition time in birthing. Extreme dislocation.

Then, finally, the miracle. The punchline. The tonic. This sacrament is a circle dance. My shadow grabs my hand, and I remember the steps.

All the Unifying Forces sing lullabies to the babies, foxtrot around the graves, and dwell deep in the dung of human fallibilities. Beside us and within us, they shoulder the blame and share the exaltation. Best efforts fail. Bladders leak. Our fingernails are broken and unclean.

But this is how it’s meant to be. Who can tend a garden and stay perfectly pristine?