My soul, the essence of who I am, is bound to this garden by strands of gossamer spun like spider webs out of my heart.
I have grown roots that anchor me to this place as surely as if I were one of the plants that grew here in such abundance. I am nourished by this attachment in ways that would be difficult to explain to an urban world.
I was told once that people move on the average of every seven years. This is outside my sphere of understanding. Perhaps its this restlessness that is the source of dis-continent that is a defining characteristic of this post modern world. People never seem to stay in one place long enough to experience the very real benefits of truly belonging to a familiar landscape. It takes a long term involvement across the span of many years to achieve that deep sense of kinship to a place we can call our own.
There is much of this garden that is entirely the work of nature herself. Even the cement driveway has been turned over to the creative efforts of nature and is now mantled in wild asters and rudbeckia growing out of the cracks. Since I have no use for this concrete, I am more than happy to allow nature to take control of it and create something beautiful.
So like the bees who have found a bit of heaven here among the native plants I as well have found a place that can be, must be the vestibule to heaven. At least its a reflection of what I hope heaven will be. I’d have no use for streets paved in gold.
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