An excellent nature essay by Marguerite Wiser

The tangy smell of tomato plants drifts on the warm breeze. I bury my toes in cool dark earth as I watch honey bees move from one blossom to the next, humming to themselves as they work. It is here I find myself, a sliver of solitude in this small corner of the world so teeming with life. Thin green stems curve and stoop under the weight of their burden. As my nose fills with their earthy scents, I relax. Here, time is nothing more than light and dark, the movement of the sun, and the sway of the trees. My head clears, my thoughts become my own. My wilderness is here. Not in the garden’s seemingly endless rows or in the cloudless skies, or even in the earth itself, rather in me. I find myself more connected here than any other time or place before. I am as a part of this eternal motion as the ripe red fruits that sway in the warm air. This place is wild, free, and utterly connected to everything that is, ever was, and will ever be. It seems strange to me now, to think that everything was once as wild as this little corner of earth. When I think of it, wild the earth still remains buried beneath and lying dormant under a blanket of asphalt and buildings. I may be alone in the garden, but I carry with me the ideas, experiences, and memories of all that I have encountered. Inhaling the sweet scent of tomato plants allows me to forget the stench of smog. The dark soil on my toes allows me to forget the feel of hot asphalt. Listening to the buzz of the honey bees and the chirping of the birds allows me to forget the clamor of the cars. This moment in the garden allows me to forget moments before and endure moments afterwards, moments when the blue of the sky is insulted by the criss-cross of telephone wires and when the sway of the trees is replaced with the stillness of steel buildings. When I find myself surrounded by walls, I remember this moment in the garden, and a feeling of calm sweeps over me, just as the wind brushes the leaves of the tomato plants.

Sunday

The wonderful Tutu has wonderfully contributed this wonderful piece of writing for the blog! Respond with your own writing!

Sunday

Sunday 9:57 am, the sun was shining high and the birds were chirping, but I would rather hear sharp nails on the chalkboard or exaggerated crying, filthy diapered babies pulling my hair, because next to waking up Sunday mornings, the small brown feathered critters were my least favorite. Sunday morning, I would rather jump off a cliff.

10:03 am, gravity pulls me down to my knees as if I am to plead for forgiveness. So I sacrifice the brunette strands off my head and beg, “never again.” If I did not then I would probably be forced to green linoleum tiles of the kitchen floor. I will have no choice but to lay there for awhile.

10:10 am, all natural organisms like water tasted like metallic shavings and rust formed into cleared pristine liquid. Ice cream took forever to reach the buds of my tongue without spilling or sticking to my inner thighs. Before I could even get the spoonful of vanilla to my lower lip, I was stumbling and bent over the toilet bowl again. 

10:19 am, I am napping next to some blackish green fungus growing on the side of the toilet seat.

10:33 am, saliva trails down my cheek, my hair remains a lion’s mane and the red lipstick still stains my dress, but nothing bothers me as much as John’s number on my left hand. Smooth acid jazz vibes, lifts the spirits of the lounge including the black haired man with the ‘no ring,’ profile. As soon as I drop my eyes to the floor, he slowly swags through the crowd and makes his way towards me. Just to say, “Hi, I’m John.” What was I thinking? Gagging in my mouth, I would scrub the numbers with soap over and over again, for what seemed like hours, but the ink just would not erase. Permanent imprints from last night to leave me with more regrets. 

From the sink, I finally notice the repugnant smell from my roommate’s bedroom. I could not help but think, “Thank God, Carol went home this weekend.” Trudging from the bathroom to Carol’s door, the stench becomes more distinct and so familiar to my body that my stomach churns and regurgitates the rest of the memories of last night-- it could not be any worst than the damage that has been done to Carol’s white panda sheets.

10:45 am, that one vein above my right temple, pulses all red bloody aggravation I am feeling towards this dreadful day. I make a 360 degree turn around my small abode, notice all the chores I am left with from Saturday nights to early Sunday mornings. Every Sunday equals hell. Sunday is my horrific reminder of Mondays, sitting in comparative politics, nodding yes to everything going on. Sunday is yet another holy day to evoke all my sins. 

11:59 pm I feel disgusting.