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this little hand digger, hand
spade, trowel whatever you call it, for digging tiny holes, you
know - i jab it down and down until my arm is empty, weightless,
useless against this dense dirt. so i scrape a little off the
sides, push a little harder to make it just about six inches.
then in goes the bulb.
you've done this yourself. everyone
has planted tulips in the fall, though "planting" doesn't
feel like the right word - too soft and warm. dig a hole, drop
it in. like burying stones, some silly rite to bring back spring.
down on the knees in the mud, not caring much about hands or
jeans or fogged up glasses. not caring about the muscle damage.
the back. dig a hole, drop it in. put this in the earth to keep
for awhile. dog and bone.
i've never dug a grave, but i've
planted tulips in the fall.
64 bulbs. picked up last weekend
on a trip to the
chicago botanic garden with meg and sara. everything was
way past prime - but when the sun popped up for about twenty
seconds in the rose garden the remnants of yellow, red, white
mattered. japanese garden, english walled garden, happy talk.
i bought the bulbs and resolved
to plant them today. accomplished. i thought 64 would go farther
than they did.
i'd been to the CBG only once
before, on a warm early fall day about ten years ago with rafe
aguon, who eventually convinced me that i could do something
with a garden. here i am... still trying.
....yesterday i passed many minutes
sitting behind my desk watching groups of seniors practice moments
from the tempest and king lear. i was smiling like a madman.
they were funny and serious. adventurous and silly. they call
these things plays for a reason, i guess. but where does all
this joy come from? why can't we have it constantly? i could
imagine a heaven where this goes on all the time.... but , of
course, in heaven i wouldn't just be watching.
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