“Every deed and every relationship is surrounded by an atmosphere of silence. Friendship needs no words – it is solitude delivered from the anguish of loneliness.”
Notwithstanding my fondness for the colors, images and poems about autumn, there comes a point when I realize I’m surrounded by the dead and the dying. Another word for harvest is murder.
Now, I expect annuals to die, immolated in a final blaze of glory. But what about the collateral damage? Oh, the vegemanity! My young vegetable starts, I hardly knew you. So young, so tender, so appealing to bunnies. I didn't have enough wire baskets to go around, so you can see the surviver inside the perimeter and the stumps of its companions outside the wire. They had so much to live for. Purchased Sunday, planted Tuesday, nibbled to the nubs by Friday.
But the universe makes the rules in the Garden. Here only change is permanent. Seeing the garden with compassion but without self-deception is like trying to see death but without fear. Here’s George the Scarecrow, decked out in his tux for the Fall Festival. I got a big Styrofoam pumpkin and put Medusa Gourd’s rasta hair in the top. This was before the Festival, originally scheduled for 10/27, but postponed to 11/10 by the fires.
Here’s headless George after the fire. The Garden was spared, but the fire was within blocks, and the winds were pretty fierce around the perimeter. We’re making the most of the change. Sometimes, we put too much emphasis on heads and not enough on hearts. George is perfectly happy headless, as he is at home all year, next to Medusa Gourd.
Medusa Gourd is visiting the Garden for the festival, sporting her rasta hair, somewhat thinned by all the commotion, but looking incredibly happy to be near George. They apparently preside helplessly together over the rabbits as they harvest by night.
Reunited friends again, Headless George and Medusa Gourd get it: solitude without loneliness.