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Enveloped in the blue silence of the sky and the faint smell
of manure ascending from the earth below, suddenly I feel rather foolish for
putting so much stock into the modules and the workshop; into those carefully
crafted and well-organized words as if one can reduce the heaven into a bullet
point and summarize the texture of the earth in a closing paragraph.
As if those painstakingly
distilled, simple how-to’s can accomplish what only the Gardener from Outer
Space can…
… create something out of
nothing…
… turn the wasteland into an
oasis…
… open the ears of the deaf…
… open the eyes of the blind…
… bring life out of death…or..
… make me, even me, a
gardener…?!!!
The preposterous thought makes
me want to bury my head into the manure-enriched soil. But, before I am able to
do it, another one hits me like a leftover pavement brick from Bob's walkway.
What if ...this workshop...
intended to help… intended to instruct men and women into the marvelous art
...into the fascinating science… into the awesomely miraculous artistic science
and scientific art of gardening... is actually reducing, even eliminating our
need ... or at least our perception... our recognition of our desperate need for the Gardener from Outer Space… to show up... on our street... in our
driveway... with the shovel and the manure pile... with the garden hose and the
seeds...
The thought is so terrifying,
so bone-freezing sacrilegious that my knees buckle under its weight.
What an idiot… what a
completely colossal fool I've been! I cry out, with my
face planted between the rows of tomatoes, my mouth filled with the enriched
dirt. Before I choke completely, I turn my head, noticing the maple tree staring at me.
It gently sways its
branches in silent agreement.
I am not sure if I want to
kick it or hug it… or both.
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