I took a walk up to the garden yesterday. It's not my garden, rather the community plots. It was cold as hell and desolate. Still, the experience was a pleasant one. Each plot was gray and dead, you'd expect to see as much. The land is frozen. Speckled with white and the remnants of a long winter, the dirt runs out toward the woods and road, lumpy in spots, maybe areas where gardeners hadn't finished pulling up carrots or other root vegetables. They'll get out soon enough.
It was eerie in some fun way, the sun hanging low in the sky and perfecting daylight savings into a icy and clear canvas. I felt as though I was observing a set stage in a theater, hours before the show was slated to start. None of the players had arrived, no audience to watch as the earth is worked, no applause as the first cabbages and tomatoes came to turn their greens and reds. The wind moved some of the higher pale grass that had outlasted Mother Nature, and a soft breeze played the frigid air whispering "you should not be here."
I'm fairly certain why the air (clearly in tune with my conscience) said such a thing. I'd only come to admire a summer oasis in the early spring, but something didn't want me there. It wasn't a violent spirit, one that wasn't ready to see me. The gray garden needed time to process and work through whatever it needed to churn. It would welcome me back eventually when the season changed. I guess I knew that in going there but hoped it wouldn't notice.
But she did. I suppose she's always aware that I'm looking to drive my hands back into the ground, like a child that only understands desire. A child knowing nothing of time, knowing nothing of what it means to grow.
Barry