Wednesday, April 17, 2013

How The Foot Slips.


    Me, I become agitated by clods of clay and stones brought to the surface by veneration of soil through the practice of double trenching.  There's hours of raking, there's toing and froing with wheel barrow containing the product from hours of picking off detritus while pondering the value of a technical device that might sieve soil, and how I might make one that actually works.  Then I consider the readiness of  a Vegetable Bed, judge its slope and flatness, and continue to rake until I get the sense of how the water will flow. After which there are probably two seconds of 'bliss' during which I conclude the bed is ready for planting. I stand back and marvel at my achievement.  I feel the smile of Angels, see the sunray from above, know that I am worthy, and I clear my throat and look around in the hope that someone else might notice.  And in the end, those two seconds of bliss contain the sum total of fulfillment from the area that comprises the Vegetable Garden and beyond, toward Orion, as the Ancients might have concluded, or one or other of many somber, hallowed and distant places.  

 
     I could call those two seconds of fulfillment a "sense of property." I could wander into 'being,' see the flint knapper become a rocket scientist and clap my hands for lawyers and sense envy.  But how the foot slips in the next morning. And how the mind gazes star-wards at the soldiers of equal-ness, because there's fresh tunneling from my subterranean comrade, straight through the Beet Row, back stroking into the Carrots. As well, there's a strong possibility Voles have eaten away the Asparagus Crowns.  I look up see a boy Rabbit daring me to chase him, his aim in life is to see me trip and fall onto something sharp. I hear the Turkey and Barred Owl call. I hear Old Bluey's suitor bellow in the pipe that feeds her 'water feature.' I see what most likely are Hoppy Bug bouncing around pining for Eggplant and heading for the Potatoes where I am in no doubt emerging Colorado Beetle have the redoubt where their stories of valor keep young Squash Bug wide eyed and ever more determined to boldly go where no Squash Bug has gone before. Something leaps from the fence line and scurries up the trouser leg intent upon my jugular.  I open my arms in surrender, I give the smile of born again, because yes indeed, I know what happiness is.

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