My garden

My garden is a good metaphor for my life. Or rather my mind. While every other plan, project, job, task has a certain level of responsibility to other people, this one is all on me. For me. Sure, the other gardeners may have their interests or concerns about the edibles and weeds growing there, but let them look distastefully, it doesn't matter. When they say, "you have a lot of work to do." I simply reply, "I have three other jobs." And I offer them a basil leaf, growing amongst the weeds.

It started out organized, prepared, planned. Then I started to wing it, get creative, be spontaneous. I let other things--other people and other projects--take precedence for a while, and that was fine. But, of course, there was a price to pay later, and a great deal of sweat and work went into trying to reclaim stability, and the morsels growing there.

I am constantly surprised--given new hope--when, as if by magic, a new vegetable, a new idea, is discovered. Some struggle, and die. Other catch on, as if by sheer luck; I have seemingly no control over what flourishes and what does not. Some thrive by being ignored, others grow with attention. And some refuse to grow despite my best efforts. But it is what it is.

It needs, and it is independent.

It grows. It surprises. It fail. It survives.

P.S. And yet, the more I think about it, I realize, that it is not, it cannot be just for me. Harvest the rare and precious produce for myself, and it sits, uneaten, and goes to waste. Give it to others, and it is eaten. And I am far more nourished than I would have been, consuming by myself.