confession is such a big word. too big for today anyway. it’s implications are too complex & demanding & frankly, i may just not be up to the task, besides, who in their right mind would be interested in what i would/could/should confess? particularly since there’s no way for you to confirm or deny the truth of what i am confessing.
it is a fiction that they have not been manipulated. i cannot resist tweaking the contrast, the lighting, the saturation & the temperature until they express how i see the garden. it is an idealized view with a foot root firmly planted in reality while the rest of it dances in the breeze of fiction.
in a life filled with priorities, the garden sadly suffers from benign neglect (gray gardens); all of its little fingers grasping at the hems of my long pants, shorts & night shirt/little whimpers of ‘pay attention’ ‘look here’ ‘this is no way to treat us, we who treat you so well.’
somehow though, it seems to be okay for the garden & for me. just often enough i work my way through: dead-heading, sweeping, fertilizing, plucking, pruning. it may be that i am only able to work a small section of it this week & it may be several weeks before i get back in there & work another section of it (i apologize.)
the garden, though, has its own rhythm, one that i can only listen to & react to & look at & admire. the color palette (m. laid out the design, i’ve added to it willy-nilly over the years since he has been unable to physically work in here) surprises me — nature surprises me because there are no colors that do not belong together (everyone should know that.)
the true confession is that i love it more than i let on; there are times when it grabs a hold of me & shakes, shakes me hard. i’ve yet to weep with love & joy, but deep inside it is the ecstasy of emotion that settles sweetly in my soul.