Waiting for the light to turn green, it’s impossible to ignore the prophesy written on those back doors of the semi-rig blocking the view in front of me. The left door sports an enormous arrow pointing to the left edge of the back with the word LIVE following it. The right door sports another enormous arrow pointing to the right edge with the word SUICIDE preceding it. Choices…one gives you a chance to age, one lets you disappear for all eternity.
Life in a garden is a continuous procession of choices; of the plants themselves and of the entities that choose to disperse their seeds, whether by wind, bird droppings, clinging to a pant leg or shoe bottom, lodged in the fur of a beast, washed away by torrents of rain…its final resting place will determine whether it lives to maturity or languishes down that path of improper placement suicide.
Some hide in the shade, some bake in the sun, some love a downpour of rain, and some prefer almost none. Acidic, alkaline, in-between…plants are a complicated group of survivalist in the extreme or sensitive souls that can’t fight their way out of a tattered paper bag, in the least. Nonetheless, each growing season seems to find us practicing genocide to manipulate the playground until the balance is broken and pretty trumps ugly.
Grrru-tier, grrru-tier, grrru-tier, grrru-tier...the red cardinal sings high up in the ash tree. Gregregregrek, gregregregrek, gregregregrek...another smaller bird, unseen, sings as the sun peeks through the grey clouds then disappears for the rest of the day. Rains fall, winds blows, temps drop, and as a lonely tree frog sings for a mate on the far side of the pond; I finish up clipping and pulling the ugly until all looks pretty and I'm happy.