……with hard work, commitment, love, patience and a shit-tonne of hypoglycaemic attacks, I have recently shaped my verdant, unruly gardens into someplace worth collapsing in.
Throughout the shovelling, planting and nurturing, I have been reflecting on the neglect I feel at a core soul level. If I were to post a screenshot of my spirit, every one of you would look away. Serious illness changes you intrinsically and you will never be the same person again. I am absolutely fucking knackered by life. Disappointed, even. Medically advised rest has been suggested, but am I going sit by the window and watch the garden grow out of control? Fuck, no.
Pruning while pensive lends itself to deep, dark introspection, and despite how Wednesday Addams that may sound, it can often precede a positive shift in perspective and subsequently – hopefully – your own reality and purpose. The struggle and physicality of hard labour has forced me to look at my own behaviour, my relationships, my dreams (remember those?). Who and what am I nurturing? Why? Whom and what nurtures me? How much time, money, and energy do I haphazardly invest in the human equivalent of Japanese Knotweed? Where do I derive meaning and wholeness and how can I focus again?
I am yearning to take a scythe to my current emotional landscape and mow the whole fucking thing flat. Start again. Re-seed. Irrigate. A low maintenance life for me.
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