No one needs to plant the weeds.

This is a guest post from my friend Kathy Wilson. I enjoyed it so much that I decided you should all read it too. Enjoy.

Grace and I picked raspberries and blueberries at a friends recently. Grace lost interest pretty quickly, more interested in feeding the chicken clover heads and talking to our friend, Casey, who was weeding some of the nearby vegetable gardens. I was a couple gardens over and could hear snippets of Grace's continuous questions and Casey's patient answers.

One of her answers that has stuck with me,

rattling around my mind,

"No one needs to plant the weeds."

I'm sure there is a magical far-away land where the zucchini is weighing down the plants with no one to pick them, juicy tomatoes run amok, various herbs gone wild and fields of carrots feeding herds of rabbit, to say nothing of azaleas, rhododendron, dusty miller and mums. But not here.

Here, we thoughtfully pick seeds from the store while ignoring the half empty seed packet at the back of the junk drawer, carefully cultivate seedlings indoors in April and May as it's still to cold to plant outdoors, prepare fertilized, tilled beds for the fragile growth, covering them at the slightest frost warning, and weed the garden.

Always weeding the garden. Because the weeds will come.

"No one needs to plant the weeds."

And if you want the good stuff, the pretty stuff, the tasty stuff, you have to weed the garden.Unless you like a yard full of Creeping Charlie with some grass thrown in, a flower garden filled with thistle, or a vegetable garden choked with weeds, you have to remove the undesirable, remove the chaff, separate the wheat from the tares.

You can't garden through omission.

"No one needs to plant the weeds,"

but they'll keep showing up anyway.

If you don't' choose to be proactive

the weeds will begin to choke out the growth so carefully cultivated.

"No one needs to plant the weeds."

It's a warning, a charge to be careful,

be diligent, pay attention.

It's a lot like life.

Don't mind me - I'm just weeding out loud.

A Dream of Great Aunt Rae

Last night I had one of those dreams that even after you've been awake for a while you are sure really happened.

I was somewhere dreamish, and I was with my Grandpa, and my Great Aunt Rae. Aunt Rae died years ago, but in my dream she was there. We used to call her the Jelly Bean lady because she always had a bowl of those delicious things ready for my young hands. In the dream she was sick and could barely talk, and I put my hands on her and prayed for peace and comfort. As I prayed she laid her head down face first and peacefully died. My Grandpa and I then began to weep, and I felt connected to him more than I ever have.

I awoke sobbing, and my face was wet with tears.

division minor

I guess things aren't as bad as they used to be,
but now they scare me more.
Things could be a lot worse, but now I understand the how.
I don't see a way out of this. I don't know which way is up.
Down is pretty clear.
It makes him cry. She just sits there and eats a hotdog.
Now they are lining up shoes on the window sill,
like invisible people who go naked but refuse to uncover their feet.
They are lined up and ready to jump.

Cancer Ward

I just finished reading Cancer Ward by AleksandrSolzhenitsyn, and it has moved solidly into my my all time top 5 novels. It blew my socks right off.

Every subject that Alex touches on left me feeling like I understand that subject and humanity a little better. Every page is engaging, and the story is raw and real. I believed this story. I believed all of the characters. I've met some of these characters! He writes about love, lust, politics, socialism, medicine, relationships, death, work, joy, despair, betrayal, luck, fate, and the general sexiness of nurses (ok, that last one is a stretch), and he pulls you into each and every one like a master painter pulls you into the subjects on the canvass. Cancer is a metaphor for death, fate, mortality, and parts of Soviet society, but it is also a metaphor for those intangible seemingly random things that draw people together and force them into close and intimate proximity.

My top five is now, in no particular order:

Cancer Ward - AleksandrSolzhenitsyn,

Peace Like A River - Leif Enger,

My Name is Asher Lev - Chaim Potok,

Till We Have Faces - C.S. Lewis,

The Storm - Frederick Buechner.

I've now read this, Ivan Denesovich, and Gulag by AleksandrSolzhenitsyn. I can't wait to start reading everything else. 9.8/10

The Rush of the Sucker River

My substance is such
That I cannot bear much
Save this short summer rush,
Save this reach down and touch.
Found no worse for the wear,
Though no better; no care.
Cost, the fear of my fare:
Lost, the deer slipping snare.
My new sister and friend,
Forgive, untake my hand.
Let's start walking again
Lest our talking should end.

Wurlitzer

I knew you well inside this house, and you allowed it all. You bore my foibles with grinning patience, and that grin, well, I tickled it.

I'll play a strange song today as we set out for our stroll. What do you know, the wind is joining right in, and the fog, too. The men on the rooftops are keeping time with their hammers. The girl with a bicycle is doing a dance. The man and his damn dog are writing their review, scathing and unamused. No one will read it.

They'll all just watch and try to discern. "Uprights for joyrides? Well, I never." Yet by we pass, me holding you up around corners, while you hold the note. Somehow, we're both succeeding, knowing each others' limits but not letting on to a single soul.

We'll likely never stroll these streets again, but... no, not now. Let's not know that right now. Let's make like it's old hat, this promenade. Here, how about that old tune, the one about old what's-her-face, in the good old key of E. A one and a two and a one two three -- red light. Driver, take a left.

Take us someplace nice, someplace with a story. Take us to the hideout of some old rum-running, moon-shining sonvabitch. Some forgotten piece of unimportant history.

Prop the doors for us, now, as we waltz in and clumsily amble down the narrow stairway. I know, Friend, that your legs aren't what they used to be. It's okay, we made it. Just rest here a while.

Single Take

This body of mine... I've only seen this thing through a glass dimly. Or on a screen, two-dimensionally. I've never, nor will I ever, have experienced it live, unfiltered, unpixelated, unprocessed.

You have, though. Sometimes you smile because you know I'm inside. I like that. Sometimes you don't. I understand that.

When you don't, is it because you can read as I do? Are you fluent in the language of surgical steel and yellow-ridged craniums? Can you make out the dichotomous standstill? Do they betray my secret struggle? They must.

Alright, then. I'll admit it. I don't know if I'm ready to put away childish things just yet. At times I come close, but stop short, asking, "Will I miss them when I only see them in pictures?"

Can you discern by these fingernails that I'm a worrier, like my mother? These nails have never seen what lies atop the fabled hill. They're confined to their little window, quarantined and allowed no further.

This mock-stubble, can you see it? (Step closer.) The clutter of my mind makes it hard to see the to-do list hanging on the back wall. Two or three weeks ago now I wrote "buy new razors" on that list.

I suppose you see right through these crooked spectacles, too? Okay, yes, like I said, I have a hard time keeping up with the detailed demands of daily life, so if I can pick them up, put the lens back in, bend the frame back into submission, then I can go another day yet without dooming them to the list. Task averted.

See how my left wrist doesn't tell me the time anymore? It just let's me go on and on until I happen by a clock and hear it say that I've lost the luxury of a leisurely pace. I can hear it now.

An abrupt end... unintentional, but fitting I suppose.