I’ve been so very strong about selling my house, downsizing, entering a new chapter of my life, blah blah blah…
This morning I worked in my garden. The wisteria and the jasmine are in full bloom. There are birds hanging on to branches everywhere and Ethel is stalking a very naive squirrel. I’m pulling weeds and pruning roses and raking the gravel in the paths. There are pots of flowers and window boxes that need watering. I give St. Francis a little cleansing shower as he stands at his post, keeping peace among the wildlife.
I know I should start dis-assembling things in my home. I need to start packing and getting my head around it all. But this morning in the garden I am mourning. Everything is in utter bloom as if to say in the sweetest way they know- goodbye. And thank you.
Thank you for releasing lady bugs and dousing us with homemade compost. Thank you for knowing what is a weed and what is a wildflower lest we all get pulled in haste. Thank you for the great music you play when you are here with us bending and lifting and pulling and gently watering.
And I want to say in return… Thank you for being there for me when I was stressed or anxious and nothing would sooth me except being outside with you. And thank you for the beautiful canvas you created for all the great parties we’ve had here. For my sons’ graduations from high school. For our annual birthday theme parties. For engagement parties and wedding showers and the random get togethers with friends and family. For quiet meditation when I couldn’t sleep at night.
You’ve brought me such peace and tranquility.
And hundreds of plums! Oh Lordy! Not to mention all the birds, squirrels, raccoons and random neighborhood cats who came to enjoy your beauty.
I will have another garden. As much as I bitch and moan about dragging around 20 pound bags of mulch and throwing out my back hoeing stubborn weeds rather than spraying them with roundup, I would not be the woman I am today without you and your unconditional love, your fragrance and your dramatic seasonal whimsy.
You will be the last part of this house that I begin to pack. Both literally and figuratively.
I will miss my home and its’ cheerful sunlit rooms. But I will miss you more.