Pestilence
This is a poem about disappointment. Not getting what you wanted or expected, while watching others having it. I’d like to say I’m far enough along for equanimity. Most days I am (i no longer regret not having attentive parents. That’s progress). I’ve let go of needing fairness, like a five year old without the latest toy that everyone has but me.
But some days, it can hit me at a certain angle. How come they don’t get a rash from poison ivy? How come they have such nice white teeth? How come I have insects which looks like bird poo, on everything I’ve planted? I feel slightly persecuted. On the flip side, I understand my life is beautiful and whenever I think it’s not, my attitude needs adjusting.
Disappointment stinks at 55, just like it stinks at 5, but with maturity comes perspective. Some parades are rained on. March anyway. It’s a funny story later. Some plants can’t seem to blossom (yet), despite your best intentions. All in good time seems an empty platitude to the impatient, but some things can’t be rushed.
What’s important is to keep your faith. Your faith in the miracle of growth. In your ability to nurture and sustain it. To throw in your trowel over pestilence is to let the bugs beat you! One brave and happy plant is reason enough to continue.
Health can surely spread, as rapidly as disease can, if you remain committed. Garden on, my friends. Keep your balance on the edge, where effort meets exhaustion. Be willing to err, for beauty. Toil humbly forward, planting acorns in hope of Oaks, no matter how ridiculous the promise.
Watching and waiting, ever vigilant and responsive, you will grow in attentiveness, and evolve with your garden.
LBM 5/28/16


