Lost, in the weeds.
When winter jumps into spring and spring bleeds into summer all in the space of two weeks this gardener is a goner.
Before I had time to pick up a pair of shears or a lopper, everything grew and grew. And I mean everything: roses, hydrangeas, tulips already blooming, daffodils long gone but oh the weeds.
They are tall and green and covered with flowers, I pull, the pollen leaps and the lab and I sneeze. Synchronized sneezing. Watch for it at this summers' Olympics.
And what's been found you may wonder besides a pile of work and some beautiful blossoms?
Old friends. The friends of my 20's. There was an article last Thursday in the NYT about a clothing designer named Douglas Ferguson.
He and I and a third friend, Renee had what R. refers to as a "fortunate youth". I just found her last night via the power of social media. She's living the life I would have imagined for her, a house, a same sex spouse, 4 cats, too many books and much music. The other option, in my mind, would have been a hermetic existence on a houseboat in Paris. With the books, music and Gauloises of course.
She has a beautiful laugh.
And Douglas? Since we've parted ways he's studied in Rome, had 3 of his Goddess dresses exibited at the Met in 2003 as part of a costume exhibit and appears to charmed his way into a circle of people that included Diana Vreeland and Patricia Fields.
His life too seems a perfect fit.
He says we're all a part of Indra's net. After looking it up I have to agree.
And I feel like this age might also be looked upon as fortunate.
Enough philosophy, the garden is calling. I have pansies to be planted.
