Fingers in brown sandy soil thinning crowded avenues of carrots. I used to despair thinning these deep tap roots stretching down past undulating worms. How could one decide carrot life or death? How could one presume to kill this one or that one?
**The murderer poised her fingers between seedlings, yet another Hitler.**
These days it’s different. The fingers simply pluck, pull, tug, weed, dance between the overcrowded green carrot fronds. Something more is glimpsed than the random death march. You can feel the life march, as well, the relieved sigh when dirt-space reveals itself. Ahhh! The remaining tiny carrots snuggle in the expanded space, desiring to puff outward, to grow fat, to marry dirt, to orange up in underground caverns now dredged in breathing room.
I notice how the Universe is always culling, as well as spinning new fronds. How creating and disappearing always make room for each other. How death courts life and how life dissolves in it. How a field of infinite connected energy exists, but how it must continually open its palm and let go, and then continually create something new.
Out to the garden I go, when these typing words cease, in torn shorts and baggy orange “Isle Royale” t-shirt. Will snuggle in on a faded purple high school football cushion, knees and calves grubby in dirt, fingers moving relentlessly in the carrot kingdom whispering, “It’s all love, it’s all love, it’s all love.” Or maybe I won’t whisper at all. The overhead buzz of red-flashing frantic hummingbirds, the drone of cicadias, the sensuous tease of basil, the bulbuous tomatoes heavy of vine, the dancing pattern of sunlight on oak leaves–these reveal the love without words. I’ll simply bow my head and watch the fingers choose which carrot uproots and which stretches a little more languidly toward sky and earth in this deep August morning.
And into the furnace of the belly will simmer the tiny carrot thinnings tonight, and new life shall be nurtured from death, won’t it?