Death by raptor
It was a glorious weekend to be gardening. In between shuttling Sport to soccer and LegoGuy to the Medieval Fair in Norman, I managed to put in a few good hours of hard landscaping labor on Saturday. Thanks to SO, I had a sod-free patch ready and waiting for weed barrier, sand, and pavestones. I paid for it later, though, since every muscle and bone ached through the night. I did not sleep well.
SO doesn't get the obsession. Those who neither garden nor have any inclination to garden can't understand the compulsion to get outside and change the contours of the land. SO's a computer guy, happiest when he's solving some tricky technology problem. But since he can't handle seeing me perched on top of a shovel, trying to break through Oklahoma clay, I'm lucky in that he will offer his help for things I'm not physically able to do. He's a reluctant gardener, to be sure.
Last night we visited best pals Eeyore and Willa (so named in honor of being her being a scholar of William Morris, the subject of her PhD. dissertation). She gardens; he does not. Willa and I spent awhile talking about how much we love our favorite hobby.
Why do we garden? For me, it's partly spiritual, partly Zen. I love taking care of my patch of ground, nourishing it organically without chemicals or pesticides. I'm able to leave it for weeks at a time and it utters not a peep. No shrill demands, no cries of distress. It merely sits there with the patience of a Buddha. I can filter out all external pressures and focus on the task at hand. My mind stops racing and I'm able to relax. Sure, there's lots to do if I want to: weeding, pruning, carting off dead branches and leaves, composting, mulching, adding more flower beds, planning a vegetable patch. The key is this: I do what I want to do. If I don't want to do it, I don't have to. I have complete and utter control in the garden.
I'm hoping I'll die there. Puttering about, still spry for a woman in her 80s, I pray that I'll keel over from a massive heart attack. It will be a few days before my grandkids discover their Granny, swaddled in a patch of daisies, eyes pecked out by a pair of red-tailed hawks, a Mona Lisa smile on my dessicated lips.
That would be a good death.
2 comments:
Are you going to go all the way and have your grandkids spread your ashes in the garden so you can become one with your creation?
My great aunt used to take a chair out to her garden and sit and hoe. Not a garden chair, mind you, a strait-backed wooden chair. Her arthritis prevented her from standing too long and bending over, but she was not to be deterred. She, too, loved her garden--she had glorious flowers in the Texas panhandle--quite a feat for that area. She also had two "lily ponds"--which we often had to fish my younger brother out of--I was too chicken to get that close, but I was amazed that such beautiful flowers could grown only in water. I like to garden, too, but I'm usually too busy chasing down great Aunt Eva's ancestors. :-)
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