It saves me. Every day, gardening saves the part of me that reaches the very edges of tolerance. Every year something pushes me closer to the edge, my snapping point, the point at which either I break or shit gets broken. The past few years has been a steady stream of injustice. I’m a nice person, my partner is a good person, my kid is glorious, yet we keep encountering shit. Every time life gets a little bit brighter, something happens to one of us (and there-fore all of us), that packs us back into our boxes.

I resent being made to feel resentful and hard done by. I resent being made to feel the weight of drudgery that is thrown at me thanks to pricks.

And every time, gardening saves me. I go to work and spend the entire day absorbed by the sweet earth and all that suckle from her. When epic shit occurs, I find a weedy bed and I set about putting it right. A literal interpretation of what I want to be able to do to the problem happening in life. All the shitty bits of emotion, angst, worry, heart-ache, (weeds) can be lifted, leaving space for beauty, cleansed, breathing. Or I can sow seeds, or pot on seedlings, things that can only grow and give and bask under the sky and demand nothing more than gentleness.

When the human world becomes hard. I can go where the way is soft… and it saves me and my tears from falling.. so hard.


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