Gardens, Symphonies and Cannolis

One of the subconscious things I enjoy about gardening is the gradual metamorphosis of the landscape. It starts as something decidedly unpretentious -- like the photo above, taken today. There’s some baby lettuce in the foreground, some leftover winter kale in the middle, and a couple boxes of onion starts back near the fence. Most of the other boxes are untouched, still waiting their turn. Sundry tools & hardware migrate from box to box for a while.

Over the next few weeks this will change. Not all at once, but every few days some new planting will take its place in the order of things, determined to fulfill its role and trajectory through time. The view will change substantially in a month or so. And of course the wildlife will materialize with it. By mid June the curtain for Act II will rise, to new scenery and a different vibe.

And yet there is an order to it. A plot. The boxes ensure this; it will not devolve into chaos. Like a symphony, the instruments will come and go, but the structure and arrangement -- the story line -- will remain intact. There’s a dependable theme to it all. When I wander out there most days over the next six months, I won’t stumble into a strange land. But neither will I find exactly the same place, as fun surprises adorn the durable design on most days. A violin flourish here, a timpani roll there…

These themes of wonder, beauty, comfort and change form a communal thread across the human experience, tuned to a distinctly human frequency. You can find it in the garden, or at the concert hall, or the art museum, or in your kitchen. Life and art are linked. Without us, the art is barren, stripped of telos. If you feed the audio, video and scents into an artificial intelligence, they will remain barren, without purpose and unappreciated — just so much correlated data fed through communication algorithms to fuel the illusion. But drop a human into the scene, and there’s instant meaning. Memories. Aspirations. Joy. Sorrow.

When I stand at the edge of my garden on a bright spring day, this is what I see. Not boxes. Not plants. Not tools. I see the first movement of a symphony, unfolding into my senses and feeding my soul. The circumstances of life and survival instinct will always conspire to collapse this four-dimensional, art-filled reality into a lifeless, two-dimensional to-do item. But I resist this with all my strength. Because I am human. My life has meaning and purpose. My interaction with reality is not a series of snapshots; it is a symphony. And I will listen.

Thanks for reading.

NOTE: I frequently edit my writing after the fact. I realize that this is a curious habit, but such is the life of self-publishing on a shoestring. Pushing pieces out the door is my way of imposing deadlines and avoiding the perfection trap. Which is all to say… if you are an E-Mail subscriber, you will frequently find a slightly improved version of a piece on the substack site a few days later. Going forward, I will add an end note when a piece has been edited since its first release.