I’m sore from gardening. That means I’m doing it right. Currently our back yard is pretty destroyed, chunks of tree everywhere, blackberry bushes previously, neatly wrapping around living tall things, now slumped lifelessly across the yard. Tortured stocks of demonic – I have no idea what the hell they are, but they’re prickly as all hell with fuchsia flowers – gouged from the earth by their stubborn, desperate roots, tossed into what will be the goat-food pile.
The ivy won’t even know what hit it when we get to it.
And now, I am finally sore. Woman vs nature, a battle I hoped never to engage in. I am nature’s ally, but I have to put my foot down and say –
“No more! This is my backyard and together my boyfriend and I shall enjoy it! daffodils shall be planted instead of your spiny fuschia flowers, and we shall delight in a lawn of chamomile, thyme and lemon balm, so each step shall omit soothing perfumes, and bumble bees shall seek their honey in this oasis in the flat farm lands of Skagit County. No more, nature, shall you dictate what goes on in the soil of this spot, for it is our time now.”
And Nature, in all her beauty and glory, will nod her head in acknowledgement. She knows how to share. She learned it in kindergarten, you see. She will understand, take a step to the side, and lend her healing, green hands when asked. And she shall know, that there is no need for her thorny anger here.
And now, the rain has stopped and the sun is coming out. Perhaps I should go and work in the garden.