If you’ve been following my normally quiet little life since mid-August you know I’ve been dancing happily around the yard picking crabapples and grapes and pears and apples and peaches and tomatoes and the rest of that vegie garden stuff, and transforming their physical form into something more long-lasting. For this, I’ve nearly been crucified, fallen off a ladder, gotten hit in the head by falling pears gathered together in defending their tree, been tatooed with an ankle bracelet by the killer raspberry vines, nearly blown up by an explosive fermention, and now, gotten stung by those yellowjackets that nest in the ground. Too late I spotted their hole, as one of the little beestards stung me, instantly finding the vein on my hand that the nurse at the blood drawing station apparently couldn’t.
Oh woeful Mother Nature am I! My sunny yellow chiffon gown in tatters, floral wreath askew, bruised and bleeding, licking my wounds, dragging bags of tomatoes, hot cherry peppers for salsa, and hard-fought-for peaches to the screeching of protesting birds, I bring home the bounty, filling my kitchen with pungent sweet scents and ripe bright primary colors.
I take a deep breath, look around at the disarray, and to the gurgle of bubbling wine, sparkle of cut glassed sealed purple jelly, I sigh. Inside my home, all outside is forgiven.