Today I put my garden to bed, so to speak. After months of toil, planting, pulling weeds, fertilizing, staking plants, pulling worm’s and beetles, my garden is ready for it’s rest. My garden has served me well. I have gleaned much. The Pasta Sauce is in the pantry. The Salsa looks scrumptious. We have eaten our fill of squash, and I have dried herbs to keep us through the winter. My garlic was plentiful, and it promises to fill our mouths with its robust flavor of the earth and fire when I roast it this winter and serve it with French bread and Brie. I am my garden. I put my sweat into my earth. The salt of my body runs off my brow and drips into the ground. My sweat runs down my flat chest and soaks my shirt. It is a good smell. My hands, once lovely, are now lovely with blisters and nails filled with dirt, broken and un polished. I measure and align each plant much like I align my life with my “to do” list. It is very neat and tidy. The weeds. They appear over night. And as I am learning to pull the needless shit out of my life I often cry, yell, and even scream as I am weeding my garden. I am my garden. My fruit buds. It is a tiny flower. I hold it as a precious gem. I breathe life into it. I smile and feel and opening of my heart. I turn my face toward the sun. Sweat running now into my eyes. I turn and look. I am my garden.