I commune with my weeds

It was raining when I came downstairs. The air was beautifully cool. I don't go into the garden very often: I look at greenness from inside. Heat and insects usually defeat me. Rain is a sound first, and then a picture, framed by windows. But this morning I was so entranced by the changed air that I unlocked the door and went out to the verandah.

I heard rain, and one cat, plaintive - in heat? hungry? A few subdued crows.
We haven't had a gardener for several months, and weeds have elbowed out the grass between the walkway stones. They have become beautiful in their variety and, in the saturated air, intensely green.

My thoughts have been so inward lately, it was a delight to look and listen without the pane of glass in between; to move outward into a simple space: a ragged green garden. I sat in a cane chair drinking coffee, and wrote a little, by hand, with a pen, on paper.

I brought out my camera and took pictures of the weeds. I wanted to lie on my stomach and shoot them from ground level, so that they would look like thick jungle; but the ground was sodden, and I was afraid for my camera. I decided to wait until the rain stopped and try again. But an hour later I saw that the new gardener, who began work today, had decided for all on his own that the very first thing he should do was to clear away all the weeds: he scraped them down to bare dirt.

This is their memorial, until they spring forth again.


Anonymous said...

Very beautiful.
Among your very best, so far.

Samir said...

This takes me, in spirit at least, a little into the monsoons mists, a welcome change from the 40-something centigrade heat outside my window.

Since this is India and life seems to spare no effort in springing up wherever and whenever given a quarter, we can be sure your weeds will be back again.

Thank you for the exquisite mental images.

shubhra gupta said...

you are looking and listening too, without a pane of glass in between. how lovely

LaVieQ said...

It seems you've been overtaken by the romance of the monsoons that seem to inspire Indian poets to verse. But, unlike their florid poems, this piece on stubborn growth plucked too soon is easy on the heart - fresh, elegant, and moving. The weed's end at the gardner's hand certainly put me in a rueful mood.

The pictures remind me of moss covered stone gardens in Japan, although those tend to be fairly well tended. The contrast between the slabs and the green is lovely.

Nancy said...

LaVieQ! So nice to hear from you always - mysterious and elegant. Thank you.

Miriam Sagan said...

NANCY--I'd LOVE something from you--words, images, etc. for my blog Miriam's well. Any chance of it?