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  • I return after many weeks of summer frolicking to my tiny urban plot of land. After loving it to growth I left abruptly but not before saying good bye in July. Now I am back on my knees. Now I am here again, crawling around among the fading flowers and the weeds wondering what I will find as I finally find the courage and the time to just be and look around on the ground on this Labour Day. Like a noisy day, the air show disrupts my silent mood but not my silent peace.

    I ask myself why yellow yarrow smells so invigorating and wish I could bottle it somehow. I find the buddha and she has lost her head and I think to myself, "That's perfect. That's the point isn't it? To find what you love and lose your head while your body and soul just do what they are called to do?" Easier said than done. If only it were so simple.

    The garlic chives have spread way too far and although I am not at all impressed I see that the bees are. My favorite yellow Japanese grass is finally flourishing and will provide me some gold during the coming fall when all colour will gently fade into the clay. The indigo blue pods and the pods of the clematis will come with me inside. I will place them at my bedside. I have no idea why.

    Perhaps because today is the day that I entered my neglected garden and felt forgiven for having abandoned it. No reprimand...only silent forgiveness. I know that I will, in times to come, neglect my garden again no matter how strong my intention not to. I also know that if I am able to remain just careful enough it will never neglect me. It's a dance. And so tonight I will sleep with the headless buddha and the scentless flowers and feel ecstatic in a weird and wonderful kind of way.

    I wonder, but do not care, what anyone watching might think when they see me with my face against the furry wild grasses, softer than the hair of any man I've ever known. The sensation brings back memories and creates new desires at one and the same time...just like the garden does. Guilt and forgiveness, desire and memory, life and death. The language of flowers is beyond words, thank God.

    I decide that weeds exist to remind us either of eternity or of the illusion that we control anything really.

    I celebrate my choice, years ago, of my small yet faithful tree of the seven sons. It too will offer me some gold this fall...some real gold on grey days around the corner.

    Finally, I pat myself on my sun-kissed back for my ability to choose lovers and friends wisely, most of the time. Like my garden and like my aging self and like every season they give and forgive, they love and they leave.
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