💾 Archived View for signals.pollux.casa › blips › 2021-03-20-Garden.gmi captured on 2023-07-22 at 16:26:56. Gemini links have been rewritten to link to archived content
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On a weatherless day we found ourselves at an intersection of our garden paths. And so we began to plant seeds here together. We nurtured that garden, with smiles and tears and sunshine of our own. We grew short bushy shrubs with round leaves that were rimmed with gold. We grew large squashes that swelled with delight for the squirrels that came by. We grew spiraling blossoms and vines that climbed up towers.
I told you about my love for the garden, how I had found myself on this patch, of other gardens I had seen, and been a part of once before. I told you about the other gardens I still find myself upon, after all this time. I told you about the unknowing of the gardens secrets that still remained.
No matter where I was I knew we were all a part of the garden. I knew that there were walls and barriers, and I could feel those impaled into the garden's flesh, into our flesh. When one of the garden shrivels, we mourn. What returns to us nourishes another and our garden thus lives on, as itself, in another form. Even what fades from here has nothing else but to be the garden.
In the garden the ground moves beneath me, I know not what I might stumble towards or run towards. Even if I were to try to still myself, I feel all that is moving and I know I too am a part of all that is moving.
Whether or not you intend to find yourself in the garden, it is a garden for you, it is a garden of you, and I, and everything that has ever been the garden or be in the garden. Whether or not you scorn the garden, it will still be a garden everlasting. The scorn will embody you and your fear of the garden, but the garden will not latch onto you, it will not scorn you, it knows not how to scorn.
You thanked me for welcoming you here, but it was not me who chose it or willed it or resisted it. The gifts of the garden will themselves to be.
And when it was time for you or any of the others to leave, I have nothing to do but grant you those greetings and watch the transverses of the garden expand as my sight of you dissipates gently. I can still then feel you in the ripples of wind through the trees, that whispered to me that you were well.
In the garden, I never know to be listless, each new bud flutters for love and so I tend to them. As you once tended to them with me, perhaps I have learned to do so with more care, more ease, no longer just my hand guiding but every gardener's hand overlapping to pull each thread through the needle.