I did a little gardening yesterday. It’s been freakishly warm here, so I took advantage of the weather to finish pruning the rosebushes and to pick dry leaves out of the beds. Weeds which had become brazenly territorial, growing undisturbed for months, are no more. It’s such a great feeling to pull a huge ugly weed up by the roots, knowing that it is, thoroughly, gone.
Maybe that’s why gardening is so therapeutic. It’s dirty and tiring and sometimes a puzzle (I’m sure I made some misguided pruning decisions on my roses) but in the end, you know you’re doing something concrete, something to make the world a little more beautiful. So I’m dreaming of spring, when I can really dig my hands into the garden (both literally and figuratively).  Maybe this year, I’ll finally create that Mary garden I’ve been thinking of for years.
Speaking of Mary, her statue stands on the corner of the patio, lovely and white as always. She’s surrounded by dark damp leaves that I have yet to sweep, the relics of autumn. Just a few minutes ago she watched an exciting patio soccer match between Matthew and Mommy, one that continued until the younger (and more coordinated) player came in for his nap. It’s nice to have her there, a gracious spectator, a constant presence throughout every season of the year.
