I find myself in the midst of another farming and wedding season. There is a fatigue that begins to settle in during this point of the summer; it sits behind my eyes and spreads itself slowly across both temples, down the bridge of my nose and continues through my neck and into my spine. It is a dull, tired ache that becomes a permanent part of my every moment. Days off are now rare and hard fought jewels of time. The great irony is that when on the rare occasion I have a moment to myself, other than sleeping the only activity I find myself longing for is gardening (and maybe a little writing...). Essentially, I need time away from gardening to garden more. However, during the hours that I scrape together for myself, the gardening that happens is a free-form version of love and creativity. It is less about rows and more about art. It moves in waves and rounds corners. It manifests in bursts of flowers and the sway of fruit-filled trees and bushes. It's hauling rocks and stones, mining the creek for sand and muck, removing mats of grass and dead-heading spent blossoms. It's whacking back brush, building trails and cutting out beds from hard-packed hillsides. And, for some crazy reason, it is more than just relaxing but is a respite, a calm in the eye of the storm, a world away tucked within my everyday life.
My flower garden is where I can wander barefoot, where the wind can whip my hair into a knotted frenzy, and where I can speak to no-one but my soul can open to everything. It's a curiosity even to me. I carve out places of sanctuary and rest yet hardly stop moving myself. And although at the end of the day I am tired and disheveled, there is less room in my mind for the dull throb of farming and wedding season and more room in my heart for patience and love.