The wanderer

I was out wandering in the yard again this morning. I wander out there just about every single day, looking for new buds, signs of healthy growth, evidence of massacring bunnies - that kind of thing.

This morning I found a proliferation of tiny weeds. I have no idea where they came from because I swear they weren't there the last time I looked. The vegetable garden is clean, but the angel garden, not so much.

They'll be evicted soon, probably tomorrow. Today I was watering and didn't feel like pawing through mud to extricate the interlopers, but rest assured I'll get every last one of them.

I often think I probably look like a moron. The yard-wandering, sometimes camera-wielding idiot who can't stop looking at her masterpiece (which, to someone who doesn't understand its meaning, is still a pretty uninspiring mess of seedlings that need to fill out. A lot). And when I'm not in the yard, I can often be found gazing at the garden from one of the windows that faces it.

Seriously. I look at it a lot.

Everything in it seems to hold so much importance to me. I have audibly gasped at the sight of wilted rose leaves and fretted far too much about what the wilting might mean for the long-term health of the bush.

My Beloved has reminded me (more than once) that they're just plants. And it's true - I know that. But I have an attachment to them that is bordering on pathological. The seedlings that I planted just after Thomas' first birthday and tenderly nurtured through the bitter tail end of winter and into the spring - they're in there. The Angel Face rose that I searched for in vain and finally found one day, quite by accident - it's in there. The New Dawn climbing rose that my Dad helped me pick out - it's out there too, beside the angel garden. The "Sentimental Blue" Balloon flower I planted for another little angel (Thomas' buddy Ryan) - it's there too, tucked in beside a solar light just beneath the birdhouse.

Everything I've planted has a deeper meaning. The zinnias and cosmos were favourites of my Grandmothers. The Cranberry Cotoneaster was a gift in Thomas' memory from my Aunt. Snapdragons put a twinkle in my Dad's eye and morning glories make my Mom smile.

I chose each plant for a reason, and so everything means that much more to me, even if no one understands why.

It's tiring being so sentimental sometimes, but it's also good to have found a relatively constructive and certainly beautiful way to feel so connected to memories - and to special people I love so much.

If that makes me a moron, I can live with that.