My garden is my Other Self. My self is prone to flitter away the time in a rocking chair. My Other Self says, “Walk. Go every morning.” Nothing sits down in the garden.
Squirrels chase and jump. Blackbirds peck. Mourning Doves stroll together. Hummingbirds flutter their wings. Seeds pop up. Shrubs grow tall. Flowers bend over. There’s no time to lose. Move; bend your knees ten times before walking, and swing your arms, and open and close your fists.
My Self is liable to throw on any old clothes. My Other Self says, “Fix up. Hide your wrinkles with make-up. Wear a hat to protect your face. Add a handkerchief in your top pocket. The garden flaunts its beauty and inspires others with blooming roses.
My Self surreptitiously saves magazines, Christmas cards, old letters. My garden demands all plants either dead, sick or obnoxious discarded. I must keep up to date.
Throw away.
My Self wastes newspapers. I must take them to be recycled. My microorganisms love to recycle my dead leaves and grass clippings into black, friable dirt for my garden’s border.
My Self neglects to add color to life. My garden is busy filling the horizon with orange hibiscus and red bougainvillea filling the onlooker with beauty and joy.
My Self forgets to add drops of perfume. My garden supplies heady, sweet scents of perfume with rose geranium, rosemary and basil.
My garden is my outside home. It is the place that teaches me to keep up with life and color and beauty and fragrance.