Today was watering day. Because it hadn't rain in the past couple of days, watering needed be done. Watering must be done by hand around here every other day or so. It is a labor of love, and one that I truly enjoy doing, because it give me reason to get acquainted with each of my plants individually; know what they like or dislike, what may be affecting them, or what they may need, what the sun or shade can do to them, and what they can do to my soul.
Just as you never do get to thoroughly know people unless you have lived with them, so neither do you get to appreciate your roses well, unless you have dwelt where they dwell and water them individually. No in-ground sprinklers other than a hose and your hands.
It was also weeding day today... "o," said the little blades of grass, growing up; "o, how the sprig hours pass, Butter-cup!" And they do! Weeds grow by the minute 'round here. As you pull them out another one of those annoying little thing will be already popping up the ground before your very eyes. Whenever I have the time to do this, I'd also remove weeds by hand. It is more effective than spraying, and in an odd way, I enjoy doing this task as well.
That is why... "with some people flowers are a fixed fact, a necessity; and thence follows endless pains-taking, tireless patience, and wonderful success. They are the people for whom everything grows." Anna Warner.
I want to be a feral cat. Whenever I'm out there in my garden, I would be very still under the great sky... ears listening, eyes observing, heart awaiting for one of them to show up...
...then finally, quietly strolling the pea-pebble paths in their reassured feline way, one of them will appear... White-black-orange going deep into the woods, under bramble and prickly bushes, wandering the deciduous floors on an environment teeming with all sorts of creatures and whatnots. Always roaming freely over a wide variety of habitats. My heart is a feral cat.
Today, I also weeded the flowerbed under the round umbrella-like, white-flowering Crepe-Myrtle in the front yard. Because of the density of low branches, I actually had to crawled under the tree to do the job, and on doing so, I discovered a most magical place... a soft, cool bed of green. Cushy and restful, and I wanted to make me a home there and live in it, and all of a sudden I was Thumbelina.... once upon a time, a lonely old woman was given a seed by a good witch. Once planted, the seed grew into a flower, and a tiny girl emerged from inside the blossom, no bigger than the old woman's thumb.
I wish I could capture the natural light of the wood, but as much as I've tried, my camera falters, and it can only captures images devoid of the real magic perspiring there. Soft, gentle light filtering through branches and green leaves carpets the wood's floors in itsy-bitsy, dazzling stars that, when they touch the waters running through, twinkle and flicker, turning the woods into an enchanting place of magic, and fantasy untold.
And Thumbelina listens... listens to the enchanting sounds coming from the woods, the breaking of branches by some unknown creature out there, the sounds of birds foraging for food. She hears the blackbird in the woods, the locust in the bramble and, like the fabled hunter's horn, old tunes her heart plays...
“In the beginning, God created the earth, and he looked upon it in His cosmic loneliness.
And God said, "Let Us make living creatures out of mud, so the mud can see what We have done." And God created every living creature that now moveth, and one was man. Mud as man alone could speak. God leaned close to mud as man sat up, looked around, and spoke. Man blinked. "What is the purpose of all this?" he asked politely.
"Everything must have a purpose?" asked God.
"Certainly," said man.
"Then I leave it to you to think of one for all this," said God.
And He went away.”
―Kurt Vonnegut, Cat's Cradle