Posted on by d

These eyes.

A riot of color welcomed me, and a quiet cacophony of hummingbirds and bees, butterflies, other little things come to get drunk on flower sperm and help keep the vibe alive. I was there to see it for her, to relieve some of the pressure of maintaining a garden, of dealing with glaucoma, of not being able to see the finer details anymore. 

She was something of a hedge witch though. She knew where she’d planted things, could still see when the deer had helped themselves to the boneset, knew when it was time to prune so plants had more energy to regenerate. She had me wage war on the anemones, the beautiful white flowers that built networks just under the surface of the soil and spread like a California wildfire. This war, this endless war, had me returning each week to listen to the sounds of the wind in the poplars, to uncover beetle nests with delight, to run to her like a child because I’d found the first monarch caterpillar of the season and it was eating something other than milkweed.

What was this plant, I wondered? She held it close and then far, then sniffed at it, closing the worse of her two eyes in hopes of catching a clearer glimpse.

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” 

I was on the clock, so sharing wonder was as far as I could digress. I’d left my phone in the car, the one with the plant ID app. She would have been a bit disgusted, I think, had I consulted it first, a bit angry with everything, the kids these days, kids being relative since there I stood at nearly fifty, wide-eyed with wonder at a caterpillar, holding it out to my 74-year-old friend.

I was still young, to her. Though mine, too, were beginning their decline, I could still be her eyes, so I needed to be good at it. I pinched a sprig and put it between the pages of a book, the book I’m reading, the book I can read. I would look it up later, come up with a way to tell her how I found my way to its name. 

She was already losing so much magick, so much magick. I hoped that after I left, she sat and looked at the shapes I’d created as I cleaned up the beds and gave the plants room to breathe. I hoped that she sat there and listened to the music—the wind in the poplars, all the sweet pollinators who’d come to her oasis, the offering her garden gave her in exchange for the love she gave it, for the love that I, through proxy, now continued.

Posted on by d

i’m a murderer…

i used to be the one with trays of seedlings, a doorway arched by night-blooming tobaccos, a full daytime array of succulents and blooming cacti.

come over, i’d say. you need to see the san pedro.

lately, i’ve lost several houseplants, most of which i’ve had for a few years since settling into this little mountain town.

i’m not sure why either, which troubles me – i have yet to identify the dis-ease, the un-ease, the lack of ease with which i used to care so deeply for my chlorophyllic friends.

this, more than many things, has sent me into an emotional tailspin.

things in my care are dying.

i am in agony.

right now i’m surrounded by wild bloom – a veritable field of mushrooms appeared first, followed by an even larger field of miner’s lettuce and a huge patch of luneria. dandelions, already providing opportunities to wish. it is green and awe-inspiring.  but also, it makes me a little sad. there is so much i cannot always walk softly. i haven’t yet learned how.

that’s the courage, too, i always say, of being a wildflower. you sprout where chance has placed you and start setting roots. you have a period of growth. if you are still lucky, you bloom where you are. if you are luckier still, you will be able to do that in a place where you will not get stepped on, where you will radiate with color and feed bees before you scatter your DNA and ascend, your essence carried on through the honey and the seeds…

it’s a risk you take if living in a pot doesn’t sound like an alternative to you, but even so you run the risk of having to push through pavement. just hope it’s a vacant lot. or a playground, depending how long you think you might want to have that trip.

what are we, though, really, without that particular struggle? it’s the thing that keeps us connected to the earth, the whole reason we’re here having this human experience, learning to be in harmony with ourselves and everything else. we will eventually learn it, or not. most children leave their mothers eventually.

whatever is inevitable is okay with me. all of it is as is. the journey will more than likely continue. or maybe not.

in the meantime, i wonder what is reflected in the death of my houseplants. is it simply a lesson to learn in letting go? if i take it as such, will i grow careless in places where i do not need to? or is it simply a message from my little green friends that i need to listen more closely, that the details of life really are far more complicated than i’d like to believe, that all things require dedicated focus and special care, and anything that doesn’t, doesn’t currently require my time. some things adapt to their circumstances, and some do not. there is always the compost, which is also a spiritual thing.

i know. i am sensitive, it’s true. i mourn the loss of my houseplants deeply, even though i understand that i am witnessing the cycle of life in all ways. And that i also have the power, here, to honor their deaths with dignity. it still hurts. i think all living things have sentience. something in my care is dying. i am in agony.

Posted on by d

pacifist with a gun

It’s true.

First off, I went dancing last night. Reggae. One love. One “extra” drink, plenty of irie and not enough sleep.

This morning, I got up and went to a hand gun class.

The teacher, he was a sweet guy, despite my concerns that I might be shooting guns today with a Donald Trump fan or something. Thankfully, he did not exude this particular vibe, though he is an ex-cop and when I facebook-stalked him, the first thing I noticed was a meme that stated he was proud to be white, Christian, straight, and pro-gun rights.

i am none of these.

well, honestly… to be fair, i feel the same way about guns as I do about vaccines. They have their benefits, and i don’t trust either of them enough.

nonetheless, i, along with a couple of college girls, plenty of north county cowgirls and an older lady with lesbian shoes and a gruff voice showed up for the ladies’ handgun class today.

we went around in a circle. After everyone except the lady in lesbian shoes (who said she lived in a bad area and that people threw stuff in her yard all the time, so if she ever went out there and found a gun, she wanted to know how to pick it up – yes, truly) claimed they were there because they wanted more “protection”, he got to me.

There’s that thing in me that wants to know what I’m up against. It’s the peace seeker in me. Know thy enemy and you find common ground.

there’s a big part of me that deeply believes in magic. I believe in peace, and I believe in pacifism. But I am not meek. Humble, yes. Meek? No. I can only turn the other cheek for so long before “LOOK, MOTHERFUCKER, ENOUGH OF THIS SHIT, GET OFF MY GODDAMN LAWN” kicks in. I want to be the one willing to offer a place at my table of abundance and peace…

but on the same token – there are people who go wrong. There are people who will hurt you. Do i increase my chances of encountering one of these people should I bring a gun into my periphery? If I truly believe the way I do about the universe, this is highly possible. Common sense dictates the possibility, really – with a gun, I may take myself places I might not have gone before, too.

it remains to be seen whether that is courage or stupidity. these things often get mistaken for each other. But I know what I’m up against now. I answered some questions and now I have more.

i guess it’s not all that coincidental, either, that something happened to my shoulder yesterday as I reached over to the passenger seat of the car to grab something. The pain was so searing that it made my eyeballs roll back into my head. It hurt badly all night and today and it still hurts as I write this 24 hours later, though not nearly as bad.

It hurt to hold the gun up and shoot.

One the other hand, if completely avoiding good ole boy mansmirk at a shooting range were made possible, I know I would enjoy target practice. I would warm up with a semi-automatic because after today I found them easy – but I hated the way they looked. They were ugly and mechanical, angular and monochrome. They didn’t hide their awful truth.

A little stubby 38 special revolver was what stole my heart in the end. It brought the romance back into it all, the idea that a lady merely needed to show possession of said accessory in order to shut a man up and move through. Wild West style and all that.

The romance was short-lived, however, and for that I am extraordinarily grateful. I’m glad to now know how to operate one, and I hope the time never comes that I feel I need to.