Divorce

There’s something to be said for the progression of the seasons. It isn’t instantaneous, but it isn’t without surprise either. Most notably is when the snow melts and new life is seen amongst the remnants of winter. Every spring I was surprised by the small purple blooms that grew from the snow right by my walkway; like a personal love note from the ground. Those blooms were always shortly followed by the visual symphony of leaf buds on the trees and the visits from the birds that had been gone all winter.

This was the experience I felt every year; amusement and amazement at the changes that occurred. And every year I attempted to add my own love notes: mallow, foxgloves, catmint, lavender, elderberry. My contributions to the changes grew with every rotation of the seasons. I gave back to the ground that I felt this deep love for. My heart swelled as each bloom popped with color and with every tendril that reached for me. I felt like this love was forever returned to me through the songs of the pollinators and the rich smells that came from each plant.

At some point my little world had exploded in greenery. It grew like a jungle of echinacea and lilies; prolific and overtaking. It was glorious. I loved every bit. I touched every stalk with care and thanked every root for its gift. My little garden and I were happy together. There were few cares. I loved the ground and the ground loved me.

As late spring came, I added another gift. Beautiful, bountiful marigolds in various shades of golds, yellows, and orange. They bloomed like small suns all around my garden beds. Again, I felt so much love. I tended them and all the flowers of my little plot; watering them all twice a day, talking kindly to them, adding compost where needed. I poured my soul into this little world of mine and it prospered.

There was a morning that I was pulling weeds amongst the marigolds, with as much tenderness and affection as I had ever done. I reveled in the feel of the stems and the soft petals against my hands. Then a bite struck me. I had grabbed a thistle and the thorns had stuck into my hand. That day it seemed no matter; I felt no lost love for the ground and the gifts of our relations. The pain was temporary and faded easily away from my thoughts.

Another morning arose and as I was tending another patch, I felt yet another bite. This time, the thistle drew blood. Red droplets spilt on the green leaves below where I had knelt. Though no love was lost, I felt a hurtful surprise in this attack. I began to wear gloves when tending my garden and my songs were fewer. I missed the bare feel of the flowers and the dirt, but I felt guarded against that which I had put so my effort.

I still enjoyed the scents and vision that world provided. I still sat in the early morning sun and thanked the ground for the dew that sparkled and the smell of the damp Earth. I still watched in awe as each plant changed with the season. I still had a deep love that was not stifled by the bite of the thistles.

Again, the time came to tend to my marigolds. The plants were full and allowed for no other plants to grow amongst them. They overtook their patch of land as if to lay claim over a kingdom. As I reached among them to remove the dead blooms, slugs, and any weeds that may had laid root, I felt a bite. A spider had made its home amongst the small sunny blooms. There was a glisten to her body and the familiar red mark on her back. I felt no betrayal, I felt no love lost, but I was weary.

Late summer had been upon us at that time. I no longer tended my plants as I had before. I was cautious and uneasy when reaching to pull weeds or dead leaves. I noticed that many spots had begin to overgrow and fight for places in the sunlight, but I no longer had the courage to intervene. I still felt a deep love for the ground and felt as if the ground loved me, but I could no longer reach to touch the gifts we had shared.

Time passed and my heart became heavy. I ached and I no longer found joy in the scents and the songs of my world. I no longer put time into watering or pruning the world I had put in so much time and love. I had forgotten the small purple blooms of spring and the velvety feel of the petals. All that I could recall was the bite of the thistles and the venom of the spider. By fall my world was dreary, overgrown with marigolds and weeds.