The truck driver:
This Sunday we decide to be productive in the yard before the day ends.Â With the clocks set back, we fell backward this morning.Â Â She wants to cut down the raspberry canes and clean up around the garden, leaves an stuff.Â A lightbulb goes off in my head, I have the perfect tool for cutting down canes in a berry patch.Â A Stihl gas powered hedge clipper, I think its bar is like 22â€.Â I love it!Â You get down low and go to town, itâ€™ll take probably about five minutes to clear the whole patch.Â Iâ€™ll really earn my keep today, Iâ€™m thinkin.
She goes to the little tool storage closet and removes a pair of hand pruners, good for cutting flowers, one at a time.Â Iâ€™m in my tool closet grabbing my scythe and topping off the fuel.Â Â About five minutes in, she and I are getting close to one another in the patch, I have the thing mostly mowed down and we meet as she cuts single canes.Â I stop and turn off the machine and as I look at her I can see something isnâ€™t right.Â Tears burst out, drops flowing down both cheeks, she sobs.Â Oh.Â I know what happened, the machine is wrong.Â A violation has been committed, an assault.Â She puts words to what I already know.Â It was violent and the wrong sort of energy for her garden.Â From now on I will ask how can I help, the inquiry will include with which tools can I bring to the task.
I learned something about myself today.
As the hedge clippers powered their way through the raspberry patch, I listened and watched the assault and the canes fall to the ground.Â There was no quiet thank you as I cut them back one by one, crawling through the patch on my hands and knees.Â There was no slow, methodical farewell, no intentional reverence.Â This was all sacrificed for the speed of getting the job done.Â Tears stream down my face and sobs come up from the pit of my stomach.Â My heart is broken at this quick goodbye.
I watched this violence and felt an assault on my garden. Â I had no idea the use of one tool over another would bring to light the connection I have with the garden and the energy there. I did nothing to stop it.Â Was I crying at the violence or at my inability to say stop. We had no idea how deep my connection to the garden was. Â We had no idea that the sound and the speed at the destruction would be so disturbing.
My mind could not believe that the manner of the work was so important to my spirit.Â How often is that the caseâ€¦that our logical, thinking minds and the ego that resides there finds the sensitivity in our hearts absurd and silences itâ€™s need.
An ending must be honored, recognized.Â The graceful way I say thank youâ€¦to the beauty, the life, the joy it has provided must be expressed with reverence.
It was only the raspberry garden, yet, it is that garden that I planted and tended and I have watched grow, Iâ€™ve watched the berries ripen and Iâ€™ve tasted them in the early morning on my tongue.Â It has given itâ€™s best to bring such joy.Â I learned how important it is for me to honor that effort with an equal effort in my farewell.