Mere Poetry

If I can believe my Good Earth Tea tag, John Adams said, "You will never be alone with a poet in your pocket."

That is why gardening captures the soul.  Since nature declares God's poetry, then weeding in The Midst, one is never alone.  Unhealthy as it may seem, solo stints in the public gardens where I donate time are reparative, cleansing, thrilling; and yet as calming as an hour with Scott or Stevenson. Unplugged, uninterrupted, birdsonged, sublime.

But sometimes there is a loudmouth in proximity, usually in the flock of volunteers that serve a particular garden area at the same time each week.  One recoils from within, doubled over in emotional abeyance, wishing to be anywhere else... enduring the exaltations of this one fellow's petty grievances and lonely proclamations that spoil the salve that is a well tended garden.  I  understand he is most to be pitied but my practiced patience is mere feigned interest in his conversations.

Would that I could really love from The True Heart of Christ. (That would be like having patience with a narcissistic son. I have so, so far to go.) I ponder the fact that I am assigned to this pack, this gardening team, because I was prone to prune outside the bounds; caught resenting an authority who said NOT to uncover the hidden cafe sign, but I meanly pruned anyway, revealing my own narcissism, even if the spanish tiled sign was now visible for the first time in well over a year. So, this suffering is born of my own rebellion! I am my OS's mother.

PS...
RE: rifled poetry
I think you were on to me, Daughter#1. I did mess with your poetry the other night. You left your laptop open, and when trying to find a podcast on bee hives, there it was, a 'Book I' in the making: 47 pages of your writing from high school to early college. I wondered 'how long till you notice my meddling??' Ah, some 24  hours later, i heard you mutter some lament @ a ...hacker?  You waved me off when I inquired, so that means you like my edits?

Maybe leave your laptop off from now on.  You know how I crave polished poems. And do delete Zubeo if you like. I have not had one hour at home to listen all week. Someday, when it's my time to paint, maybe.

---Your mum, aka, Clean Freak.