Despite my middle-age, I live with my parents, because I am ill and I will never be well again. It might be a stretch to say that I am dying, but I am on a road that leads only one way. The friends I made who were diagnosed around the same time that I was are all dead. I am the last remnant of that social circle.
The house has a large garden. When my parents are away, I look after it. The different flowers each have their time of year to bloom. It may only be a week or a few weeks. It is always a much shorter time than you think.
A month ago, there were Autumn crocuses around the trunk of the fig tree. I had not seen them in that part of the garden before. Their pale pink petals splayed quickly and they were gone, leaving behind grassy foliage. A week later, the giant puzzle piece leaves fell from the fig tree.
The Autumn is no less regimented than the Spring and Summer. Decay is as orderly as growth. The fig tree is first to clear its boughs, followed by the spindly branches of the pear tree that are now almost bare. I must go out tomorrow and gather the leaves for the compost heap. In a week or two, the apple tree will lose its leaves. A month from now – maybe a little longer – the first snowdrops will appear. The winter aconites (not, as the name might imply, a Biblical tribe) will spread like a yellow rash around the trunk of the fig tree. The rhubarb that originated ten miles to the west in the garden of my great grandmother's bungalow, in Thundersley, and that has been transplanted from garden to garden ever since, will show a few tiny crinkled green leaves that, when they are larger, will attract continental patches of blackfly. In the summer I turn the fruit into cordial. I might attempt a rhubarb sorbet next year – something sweet and slightly tart.
There is beauty to be found within these overlapping circles of growth and decay. I observe it, but I am not removed from it. I am part of a cycle too, on the downslope, I suspect, kneeling on a damp, tear-shaped slab of crazy paving, reaching out across bare earth and leaving a hand print on the grave site of a chameleon, who has been gone for almost a year and a half, but who I still miss.
You've nailed it here: "To be clear I’m not against reading about or thinking about beauty; but I am against doing both of those so much and getting so lost in that that you can’t have an experience of beauty that occurs outside of or behind or beneath the words in your head."
Too many of my English teachers focused on analysis at the expense of inherent enjoyment. They had no sense for the balance of the two, or conception that the latter is primary and should always come first.
This is great! The Path of Flowers’ is gonna stick in this fellow 46-year-old’s head. Yard full of roses here in NZ spring and I ain’t seeing them enough. Gonna go out some in a vase right now. Thank you, sir!
Despite my middle-age, I live with my parents, because I am ill and I will never be well again. It might be a stretch to say that I am dying, but I am on a road that leads only one way. The friends I made who were diagnosed around the same time that I was are all dead. I am the last remnant of that social circle.
The house has a large garden. When my parents are away, I look after it. The different flowers each have their time of year to bloom. It may only be a week or a few weeks. It is always a much shorter time than you think.
A month ago, there were Autumn crocuses around the trunk of the fig tree. I had not seen them in that part of the garden before. Their pale pink petals splayed quickly and they were gone, leaving behind grassy foliage. A week later, the giant puzzle piece leaves fell from the fig tree.
The Autumn is no less regimented than the Spring and Summer. Decay is as orderly as growth. The fig tree is first to clear its boughs, followed by the spindly branches of the pear tree that are now almost bare. I must go out tomorrow and gather the leaves for the compost heap. In a week or two, the apple tree will lose its leaves. A month from now – maybe a little longer – the first snowdrops will appear. The winter aconites (not, as the name might imply, a Biblical tribe) will spread like a yellow rash around the trunk of the fig tree. The rhubarb that originated ten miles to the west in the garden of my great grandmother's bungalow, in Thundersley, and that has been transplanted from garden to garden ever since, will show a few tiny crinkled green leaves that, when they are larger, will attract continental patches of blackfly. In the summer I turn the fruit into cordial. I might attempt a rhubarb sorbet next year – something sweet and slightly tart.
There is beauty to be found within these overlapping circles of growth and decay. I observe it, but I am not removed from it. I am part of a cycle too, on the downslope, I suspect, kneeling on a damp, tear-shaped slab of crazy paving, reaching out across bare earth and leaving a hand print on the grave site of a chameleon, who has been gone for almost a year and a half, but who I still miss.
this is beautiful sam. thank you.
You've nailed it here: "To be clear I’m not against reading about or thinking about beauty; but I am against doing both of those so much and getting so lost in that that you can’t have an experience of beauty that occurs outside of or behind or beneath the words in your head."
Too many of my English teachers focused on analysis at the expense of inherent enjoyment. They had no sense for the balance of the two, or conception that the latter is primary and should always come first.
i had the same experience with my profs. it was one of the reason i knew id never go any further with English after i graduated.
What's your take on fiction workshops etc?
This is great! The Path of Flowers’ is gonna stick in this fellow 46-year-old’s head. Yard full of roses here in NZ spring and I ain’t seeing them enough. Gonna go out some in a vase right now. Thank you, sir!
man im jealous! whenever i finally settle into a place im going to grow roses. its been a goal for a while now.
also i went to school for a semester in palmy way back in 03. i think about NZ all the time. say hi for me!
You were at Massey? Cool! We're in the Wairarapa, just over the hill. Holler if you ever make it back down!
would love to.