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When a dead plant has sat on the windowsill for a couple months, that's me.
When sun streams over the snow, reflecting off wall and south slope alike until it's almost too warm for long sleeves in January, that's me.
When there's much more clover than grass and the scent comes in through the windows, that's me.
When the boards are rotting off the old fence but the posts are still standing strong, it just needs new fencing panels, that's me.
When the grass and rhubarb and aspen and spruce concentrate their sugars so the sweetness prevents ice-cold crystals from rupturing their cells and wait until more favourable days, that's me.
When it's hard to anchor the gate because the once-living wood the gate needs to anchor in has hardened into what feels like rock over the years so it's hard to figure out where to start when keeping things in or out, that's me.
When too much traffic compacts the soil, that's me. When winter frost heaves deep into the soil and fractures it leaving it open once again to growth, that's me.
When a hard wind barely stirs winter aspens but sometimes the aspens need to unfurl their leaves and risk wind damage in order to drink in the sunlight, that's me.
When the land goes into darkness and again into light in relentless rhythm, that's me.
The city and her suburbs are muddled with the hands and thoughts of so many million people that each person devolves into the generality of humanity. Humanity is the environment and must be kept out just to have a little space to breathe so we slice off pieces: white, brown, black, smart, educated, stupid, sportsy, artsy, gamery, young, old, parents, childless, we divest ourselves of that oppressive wall of humanity in clean slices until it's whittled down to a manageable set. In the city the environment is people and so every day we must reject the environment to give ourselves a little peace and a little space.
Even with a little paid space closer in the rejection is a requirement. People are the landscape and every smaller piece of land is connected to the landscape. They will come in at us every time we raise our eyes to the horizon, every time we contemplate the outside of the walled garden.
How can I do this? Can I do this? I feel like it might drown me or suffocate me. The landscape can't be a vacation. The landscape is my home.
When sun streams over the snow, reflecting off wall and south slope alike until it's almost too warm for long sleeves in January, that's me.
When there's much more clover than grass and the scent comes in through the windows, that's me.
When the boards are rotting off the old fence but the posts are still standing strong, it just needs new fencing panels, that's me.
When the grass and rhubarb and aspen and spruce concentrate their sugars so the sweetness prevents ice-cold crystals from rupturing their cells and wait until more favourable days, that's me.
When it's hard to anchor the gate because the once-living wood the gate needs to anchor in has hardened into what feels like rock over the years so it's hard to figure out where to start when keeping things in or out, that's me.
When too much traffic compacts the soil, that's me. When winter frost heaves deep into the soil and fractures it leaving it open once again to growth, that's me.
When a hard wind barely stirs winter aspens but sometimes the aspens need to unfurl their leaves and risk wind damage in order to drink in the sunlight, that's me.
When the land goes into darkness and again into light in relentless rhythm, that's me.
The city and her suburbs are muddled with the hands and thoughts of so many million people that each person devolves into the generality of humanity. Humanity is the environment and must be kept out just to have a little space to breathe so we slice off pieces: white, brown, black, smart, educated, stupid, sportsy, artsy, gamery, young, old, parents, childless, we divest ourselves of that oppressive wall of humanity in clean slices until it's whittled down to a manageable set. In the city the environment is people and so every day we must reject the environment to give ourselves a little peace and a little space.
Even with a little paid space closer in the rejection is a requirement. People are the landscape and every smaller piece of land is connected to the landscape. They will come in at us every time we raise our eyes to the horizon, every time we contemplate the outside of the walled garden.
How can I do this? Can I do this? I feel like it might drown me or suffocate me. The landscape can't be a vacation. The landscape is my home.
