It may very well be so that a weed
is but a plant whose virtues are yet
to be discovered. And it is true that
I will allow wildflowers which deign
to honour my garden with their
appearance, presence in my garden as
honoured guests, but they earn their
keep in the shy beauty of their blossoms.
It is the sheer unadulterated impertinence
of those other, utterly drab and truly
weedy, that affront me, their obtuse
stubbornness, presumption and
unwillingness to decipher the
time-honoured code of the pampered,
treasured garden; those unwanted,
unappreciated visitors whose calling
card is denied, yanked summarily
and tossed into the compost heap, need
not return. That emphatic message, so
routinely spurned by true weeds whose
pedestrian lack of blossoms and colour
inspire me to gardener's rage, express
the distemper of the ordered garden.
Nature, at her leisure between
episodic hurricanes, earthquakes,
floods, droughts, scorching fire
and tsunamis, teases her creatures
with far lesser but unerringly impressive
displays of casual pique and distemper,
as though to accustom us to the rarer,
extraordinarily brutal events
catastrophic in their impact. This
day has been one of high winds
scuttling dark clouds across the
vault of a sun-luminous sky. We
have experienced mega-bursts of
blasting wind, sudden sullen downpours,
dark skies fading to light, then probing
fingers of sun, zealous to flaunt their
magnificent warming power, as
opposed to the lightning that so
recently streaked the sky. We give
Nature her due, no match are we for
either her light theatrical pieces or the
darkly sinister drama of her seriously
staged displays of supreme majesty.
It abided there, in miniature perfection,
gaspingly beautiful, the tiny creature.
Clearly, some gentle agent of nature
had misled the minuscule amphibian
to believe a windowsill poised above a
garden represented an ideal resting space.
When his presence was discovered, the
intention was to softly lift that perfect
little green frog into a warm and
welcoming palm, to convey it into
the nearby forested ravine where it
could be deposited to a habitat more
obviously suited to its needs, the creek
that winds its way down there.
It was, alas, not to be, for the creature
was not merely still, but inanimate,
life's force fled. How were we to know,
shuttering up night-time windows that
he was there, would be asphyxiated? His
tiny body, weightless in death had no
further care in death's imperious domain.
We raised our own and then
harnessed our elder resources
to another generation. We used to
watch in wonder as she raised herself
from a crawl to fully standing,
teetering only slightly with those
raw, tentative new steps. We bought
for her learning toys and gadgets
to delight, graduated to ipods,
smart phones and laptops. Now,
we just give her cash and she
regales us with the exciting
details of her shopping exploits.
Is it when the mind lingers
as of its own mysterious
impulse, on the dark side
of the moon, conjuring up
from some unknown, mystical
source within, as though
Nature has equipped all her
creatures in the unknowable
vastness of creation, of the
infinite cosmos, of a thread
that connects each to all,
when we are reminded that
we are as motes of starry
dust forever recycled in
the never-ending cycle of
renewal, entropy, expiration,
that our emotions linger
on the darkest side of all
possible black moods?
She dreams, surely she dreams
hazy memories. She must do so,
how else decipher those interminable
pauses of immobile intensity when
her constant pacing is arrested
and she stands, alert to some vision
passing before her unseeing eyes. At
night, asleep, she dreams, whimpers.
When this small black companion
is walked alongside us on forest trails
she is securely harnessed and a lead,
from us to her, directs her safely
along pathways she no longer recognizes
by absent sight or long-term memory.
When she wanders a gentle tug directs.
As we slowly progress on these daily
excursions she halts, turns her head
to sightlessly regard the scene behind.
What does she see? The past, thoughts
of her young days in the freshness
and delight of early discovery?
She proceeds through the tug, for she
cannot hear our long-familiar, now
puzzlingly-absent voices. Our communion
is through touch, so she knows we are there,
with her, and she responds. Then she stops,
looks reflectively behind again, seeing
there another space in time now past.
I am neither flattered nor flustered
by the arcane recognition thrown
my way of representing a sympathetic
ear to which all feel free to express
their sorrows and concerns. Why me?
Do I, without my knowledge or
consent telegraph such services; to
listen patiently and in so doing provide
a balm of ease to those in need?
My calm and unjudgemental demeanor
signals, I believe, a casually objective
world view; how have I become in
maturity such a paragon of wisdom,
a non-denominational Mother Confessor?
How is it that those perfectly unknown
to me instantaneously feel compelled to
burden me with the agony of their
unspeakably tragic tribulations?
More to the point, how is it that they
find, in the act of compelling my quiet
attention, transferring their angst to me,
needed redemption for themselves?
