While we were gone. . .

you and I, zeroed in on a hospital room in Tennessee, Life at Briarpatch continued. . .

The Malabar spinach twined up its supports:

The grapevine hugged its trellis:

The pears swelled and began to blush:

And the rudbeckia gave its all:

It doesn't seem possible, really, as you head to the same elevator, to go up to the same room, wondering/dreading what you'll encounter this time, as you push through molasses to get dressed and do it again.  It doesn't seem possible that that spinach could so easily continue its journey, those grapevines continue to reach so effortlessly for the sun, those pears to just be so pear-like, kissed and blushing, the flowers to offer themselves so fully; all of it unhinged from, unaffected by this drama that seems to require so much more than  one has to give.

I come home to heal, to stand in the garden and marvel, to cut back some of the growth that just went on and on, while I spent the week struggling, from one moment to the next to just let go let go let go. Where periodically I would be surprised to feel the blood in my veins, to feel genuine hunger instead of just a need for more energy.

There was a baby hawk on the front feeder while I was gone, John told me, still wet, uncertain of how to stand there, undecided as to what to do next. John kept the hummingbird feeders cleaned and refilled, and now there is a new batch of these magical creatures, even tinier than their tiny parents, zipping and unzipping the air as they speed toward each other, unseating whomever is on the perch.

All this life, while Mom lies in the bed.  What does she want?  Does she want to be here, meaning alive at all?  Is she too tired at 89 to make the effort? We don't yet know.  When the anesthesia wears off, in a few weeks, when her surgical pain is diminished, maybe she will know, maybe then we will,  Meanwhile we wait.

What a grand waiting room. . .