We stand here on our hilltop and wonder about the state of
the world as Donald Trump bewilders and concerns so many of us on his
continuing upward journey, and the raging fires burn the forests, and friends
too young die. Yes another this week.
But we try very hard not to think about it, since there is
nothing we can do about these things. Our days of taking to the streets in
angry, often futile, protest at every apparent affront is long past us now.
Instead, we look at the lilacs now in bloom - purple and
mauve and white, and the purple iris standing next to the bright red poppies
and the proud allium popping up all over the place. The Baltimore Orioles
enchant us with song, as do the tiny Wrens. The Peepers lull us to sleep from
the ditches at night; the howling of the coyotes stir us, and we shake our
heads at the endless battle between the Grackles and the Robins.
I have now been retired one year. Last year, as I was
recovering from hip surgery, I did not toil in the garden. Instead, my beloved
partner undertook the task and discovered not only the endlessness of the
undertaking, but the joy in it. This year, we are both at the task, and the
property has never looked as well tended in its carefree way.
We no longer work from dawn to dusk as we often did a decade
and more ago. Our bodies are not up to it. And we are wiser too. We realize
that the work will always be there. Slow and steady wins the race. We want time
to sit and ponder these days; so one or two hours here and there, multiplied by
the two of us, is sufficient effort for a garden well tended.
