but I'm nearby
in my garden
digging and planting
soon to be matting and mulching
I hope to be all done (except of course for up-keep) by the time Cheese is done with school
And to get back to writing, which has been lost to plant fever
but the farther I wander out into the garden the deeper back into story I seem to go
the darn notebook pages are getting full again, though I promised I wouldn't write one more thing in them, swore anything I thought of would go directly onto draft pages.
On the one hand I am frustrated as these notes make me feel farther away from finishing, more stuff I have to wade through and organize, and figure out the how and what, and where of. But another part of me is all smiles, I was empty in the winter, like my plants, asleep, nothing whispered, spoke, pulled at me. But now it does, and I am gratefull, to have my story voices back, in and amongst my flowers.
Bob told me he felt bad the other night, guilty, as he rode his skateboard down our driveway, while I was bent over a mound of dirt, digging and planting, "I feel so guilty having so much fun while you are working away". I said "but I am having fun", and he said "maybe, but not nearly as much fun as I am". He was wrong. Perhaps a different sort of fun, but I was happy. There is meditation in, a hum to, planting. I am on the task, I am in the music of my ipod, and I drift along on little currents of story. I am peaceful, easy, joyful, planting, dreaming.
Weeding is another matter, we wont talk about that.