The weeds scared me.
Growing through my gardens, knee-high, choking out Agastache, Asclepias and Liatris. They spread from the lawn, where they had taken over scorched patches caused by built-up thatch and too closely shorn grass.
Abundant rain and sun facilitated their growth, my neglect provided ample opportunity. By late July, my only haven, the secret sanctuary of roots I do not have, almost unrecognizable.
Last summer, X announced his liberty just as I began a minor restorative campaign. Summer into autumn and the disorder that trails that soul left my garden to its own devices.
It bore it well. By October, its wildishness remained intact. No one died, they only waited. I promised I would return.
By spring, drama from X intensified, but still the clematis bloomed, the spicy fragrance of lilium volatilized by hot days wafted in the windows at night.
But by July, the gardens lost form, unable to hold their own any longer, they gave way to the insidious greed of broadleaf weeds. Too occupied by worldly demands, I could not help, and my Other-world receded behind a featureless green scrim.
It was then the weeds scared me. A thin metaphor for my own existence, the enormity of neglect was beyond my power – grown beyond any reasonable hope of salvage by me. Too much thatch, cut too close, overtaken by things that know no bounds.
Being overwhelmed is usual for me these days, but this experience gave rise to fears of unsustainable life, deep detachment of hope, that beauty – vast, hidden and resourceful – is no longer a domain I am entitled to. To shrink, shrivel roots, and blow off, not as seed, but dead waste, coarse stalk, chaff.
The new lease came from the Practical Friend. As tenaciously gripped with this world as I am with the Other, this one is also a gardener. Day blended into evening and still we pulled weeds from turf and terrain, bushels, the mosquitoes fed well that night. By conclusion of next day, hot and humid, the gardens were cleared, visible, breathing again.
It frightens me still, that my hold here is so tenuous, that I needed help beyond my self to retrieve, to revive a connection so invaluable to me. Can I maintain it? I remain shaken by the closeness, the ease of heartless, adaptable weeds.
My gratitude to the Practical Friend is immense, as it is to those who quietly emerge in moments like these in my life. I wish I did not need help, I wish I understood.
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Shouldn't...but Do 