Having received an invitation to go outdoors, and enter into
relationship with something other than
human
I wander through the garden imagining myself into
conversation with the grass, the flowers, the just coming into bud trees. Who
will speak to me?
Between two fallow vegetable plots there is a stack of
bricks. Here, my intuition says, or the bricks do, this is the place for
relationship.
I sit on a low wall, and give my attention to the bricks.
There are a dozen or so, not neatly stacked but more or less made into
something square. A bramble curls across the top of the pile, is whipped by
strong winds. The bricks don’t move.
A melancholy comes over me. The bricks were red clay in the
earth and have been dug, and formed, and fired, and carried here, and stacked up.
No one asked the clay what it wanted, or the bricks. I have some sympathy for
things moved and made by others.
The strong wind nearly takes my hat. Branches clatter
against one another in the high hedge at the gardens edge. The bricks don’t
move. They are beautiful in the bright sunlight.
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