These flowers that grow where I dwell, these tenacious blossoms of the city streets, born to take whatever comes their way and make beauty of it, I admire them. It is as if they call for some trees to accompany them, to make the city streets brighter, to refresh the air that we breathe. There are times I feel that they are nature's graffiti, that chaotic rebellious element cheering us on.
My home in the city could be somewhere remote, for all the visitors that come. I enjoy the cafe's yet other than that I am alone. It's odd, because I feel that I'm a good person and friend. I feel that I make good choices and love and care to the best of my ability. I am quick to love and slow to judge. I walk the extra mile for strangers, maybe that's what makes me strange. I would rather be alone thought and be comfortable with who I am than warp into someone else. I have my brain, I can think, and that I will always keep no matter what, alone or in the company of others.
I am to "gardening" what my teenage daughter is to "bedroom tidying." I see what's there but I don't have the slightest idea what to do with it. On a July afternoon two years ago we strolled around this garden, the herby aromas whisking us off to pleasant evocations of italian restaurants. Each plant grew close to the others, but distinct and quite soothing in the way it was both natural and yet still orderly. But a garden is not an oil painting and plants are quite different from an exquisite dining table or chair. Without the former owner, the one who loved to potter and weed, trim and return to the kitchen with fresh herbs for cooking with, the neglect has set in. At first I joked that it was more charming for the reduction in neatness, but truthfully this city girl, this condo dweller, was never raised to take care of so much as a pot plant. My food comes in plastic packages and I gravitate toward the park with lunch during the week - still seeking the orderly nature by someone else's hand.
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