Physical labor is a good thing to do when you have a lot on your mind.
Over the weekend I cleared and dug and planted the terrace garden. It started out Saturday afternoon. I stepped outside to look at the terrace garden with a cup of coffee in hand and wearing my leather moccasins. I had taken a few people on a tour the night before. It was a mess. Weeds knee high and lots of potential. Jet-setting coast to coast doesn't give much time for picking weeds, something I enjoy immensely. I was attracted by the ready to be pulled state of my weeds and wasted no more time. Gardening focuses my body with physical labor as my mind is left to meander.
The past two days it's been a mix of memories of my life with my grandmother, my fabulous marriage currently in divorce, death of plants and animals and the excitement of the new. I pulled weeds and listened to XTC and The Thorns and Stereolab. I remembered my garden in Berkeley and picking the weeds there. My life and my husband. (Quote from Friday night: "Are you married?", "Yes, but not for long.") It was everything I wanted at the time. He was a great guy. We had a great marriage. And I am completely and totally happy being in my current life, which does not include him at all.
As I remembered my memories, I did not wish to be in my previous life. I have already lived it, loved it, and lived it and loved it at the same time. That's awareness for you. Here I was in a new garden, a new house, a new life, completely happy, remembering and experiencing so many emotions and experiences. How could Andy Partridge and Matthew Sweet write about my life so well?
I cleared the weeds, dug the dirt, sorted out the dead roots, raked the ground, broke up the stiff clods, raked some more. I laid down in and hand-sifted my garden dirt. I remembered so many times with my grandmother, Grace. She is the most important person in my life and she is dying. My love of coffee, back scratches, her fabulous painted nails. She was everything I ever hoped to be. I am honored to have her as an ancestor. She had an interesting and amazing life, but it was not easy. I was devastated when she moved back to California when I was 9. Of all the people I know or have ever met, she is by far the most important being to me. And she is dying.
I think of her as I sift the dirt. I filter the dead roots, the spoiled soil, rocks, broken glass out of my garden. She is dying hundreds of miles away. I have been lucky that I have not experienced death of any family my entire life. It does not pain me more or less that that one person that is the most important to me is taken first. Death is part of living. A young man died on Thursday a few blocks from my house. Someone just died somewhere. Death of even the most precious thing you can imagine. So I change my airplane ticket, I plant seeds, and water and remember the good times. I am thorough in my excavations, I take out each bit of unclean soil and break all the clods, so the soil is soft and ready to receive the seeds. Poppies, Foxglove, Sunflowers, Sweet Peas. Gloria will water them when I am gone.
At the risk of spoiling the subtle abruptness and void that your use of "gone" conveys, I'm going to read that last line as "when I am away.
Posted by: Will Campbell | May 16, 2005 at 07:40 AM