I have excavated more of the weed patch. It’s rough on my hands, pulling out patches of grass, positioning myself so I don’t accidentally crush the plants I’m trying to save. These are living things I’m tending. They are fragile and robust at the same time.
While I’m pulling out the plants I do not want, there is no room in my mind for everything that’s going on. There is the smell of grass and tomatoes. There is the heat and terrible brightness of the afternoon sun. There is sweat rolling down my brow, down my nose, down to the ground.
When I am thirsty, I reach for the bottle of water I took with me outside. It’s in a clear bottle, with the label taken off. Light dances and plays in real clarity as my shaking hands slosh the liquid inside. The water is sweet and refreshing.
After I clear another row of plants, I hook up the hoses and water everything. I had my drink. They will get theirs. The rain forecast for today doesn’t show up. This will be their only relief from the heat.
Nothing is permanent. When I go back inside, I am returned to life as I know it. My normal attitude: lament the passing of relief. This does me no good.
Yes, I wish I was always focused on something else. My patch is an unsightly mess, but as I have dug it out, a semblance of order appears. I wonder why this act soothes my disquieted mind.