Let’s give a snake credit

For some reason this week I have been fighting for words. They feel like day-old porridge stuck to the sides of my skull. Anything that does make it out on the page lays there acting like a soppy tissue when I try to pick up the thread of it.

Come to think of it—I’ve been fighting to feel like I’m in the right skin all week. Hell,  even the right life. It’s like someone took a duster to me, swiping through and leaving a clear swath while the old dust resettles along the sidelines.

My computer chair feels like someone snuck in in the middle of the night and switched it with one where the lumps and bumps are in the wrong spots.  Even the keys on the keyboard are tormenting me by jumping to the left and then to the right like they are doing a line dance under my fingers!

It’s been a week of feeling like I’ve slid sideways in my own skin. Just flippy-weird.

For example—after finding a bit in the Curious Gardener’s Almanac on how sunflower stems were used to fill life jackets before the invention of synthetic materials I tried to sketch out my vision of Man-wonder fly-fishing while his lifejacket sprouts tiny sunflowers. But for pity’s sake—he kept coming out looking like some hunky foreign model instead of the life-scruffed, simple-souled fisherman I know and adore.

What fun is that?

So I gave up on the pencils, pens and keyboards and took myself out into the fresh air where I managed to uproot about three dozen little green weeds  before I realized I was yanking up my favorite wild flower sprouts—the lovely and sweet Forget-me-not.


I’ve come to the conclusion that every now and then we should be permitted to stay in bed, one day, two days, what ever it takes, and in a blissfully unconscious state until we are ready to slide back into ourselves in a comfortable and normal manner. . .

Sort of like a snake shedding its old skin.


From The Curious Gardener’s Almanac :

‘A real gardener is not a man who cultivates flowers, he is a man who cultivates the soil. . . and if he came into the garden of Eden, he would sniff excitedly and say, ” Good Lord, what humus!” ‘




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