The Gardener
Santa Clara, CA 95051
theroot_
Splendiferous I thought, skidding to a halt. Because suppose the word is nonexistent. As with other hats tossed into the ring, an indulgence might be needed.
Google thundered, “Even though it sounds like a made-up word, splendiferous is a word for wonderful things.” Looking further, I find an online dictionary that calls it an adjective, typically INFORMAL – HUMOROUS.
So wonderful means humorous? In this view, wonder would be a many splendored thing perhaps, though probably not awe. As the latter term is currently coined we get awesome, connoting mockery or surprise. My supposed invention has been taken into the fold. It has been denatured, made acceptable, provided I use it acceptably. I snatch my hat back out of the ring.
The word might be used for a glorious sunset. It might mean the thunder of a marching band. It could mean the taste of bacon. But not as I would use it, nor would a mirror image do.
What's left?
Nothing much, and that's a good start. So let's go weeding.
They grow in the gravel strip by our driveway, after the slightest sprinkle. As though tomorrow might be the last day. And I no longer use Roundup, and lacking that the only way is to pull them. One by one. It would seem a waste of time. But as I've said before, time is conditional.
The weeds will grow back. But pulling them is a round robin sort of job. The weeds and I do not hate each other. It is very satisfying to finish by sweeping the gravel, once it's free of weeds, into a more or less even texture.
The entire cycle is. Immersion in the cycle is. Absurdities of work-a-day life, politics, religion, cityscape banalities, the evening news, missile silos, pandemic death and suffering, worsening climate disasters, rioting mobs, grandiose leaders, corruption, all fade . . .
When finished, it is truly a wonderful thing. My word for it is laughingly inadequate.
Some kind of free range grape rides the trellis. Tendrils in the sun coil like clock springs. High toned in retrospect, it serves the day, inspiring a trail of busy ants. A jet passing overhead contributes thunder.
And then it is gone. People on the other side of the fence are having either a jocular conversation or an encounter in muted anger. It doesn't matter which, other than showing the value of actually witnessing.
Gradually, in fits and scraps, the fog disappears. When does the day begin? A judgment might be rendered, but it seems pointless. Overtaking reality comes the bright sunlight, instantly baking the stucco wall on the right side of the pathway, thinly illuminating the power line over the back fence. The heat bath is interspersed with gusts of chill, brought in by clouds reluctant to retreat. Alternations ignored by the ants.
Some passing thought classifies the preliminaries. Beginnings of what? A succession of half-full, half-empty-guesses. Incredible, what the mind tracks in on its own, unbidden.
All is made still by a bird landing on the power line, who looks at me on the ground pulling weeds, and sings.
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The Gardener
Santa Clara, CA 95051
theroot_