grief and the garden

The only thing that makes sense this morning, as I read about more hideous, senseless carnage in the world - the good people of Nice gathering to watch fireworks, slaughtered - the only thing that heals is a walk in the garden. I just walked out into it as into a chapel, a sacred site, the green scented place on a sunny summer morning after a heavy rain.

There I see the wisdom of the world, of growing things, the force of life. The delicate yellow fingers of the rudbeckia about to unfurl, the phosphorescent scarlet of the geraniums, the tips of the green bougainvillea at last beginning to glow fuchsia, the green-black beetle nestled inside one rose - because yes, there's disease and death there too, of course, there are predators, but as part of life. Who are these madmen who only understand horror, terror, death? What kind of life do they lead with that much black hatred inside?

It won't be a tranquil weekend in the garden - it's the Indy here, race cars the west side of town sounding like angry flies through the day. But it's fun for some, so I don't mind. Not the same people, I think, as those who ride bicycles around town looking at art installations, but there is something for everyone in a sane city. And so far - I hardly dare say it - this city is sane.

Choose only one master -- Nature. 
Rembrandt, painter and etcher (15 Jul 1606-1669)