A Particular Friendship : The Labyrinth by Liz O'Neill |
Previously: I began the project I learned about at a dowsing convention, of making a deal with the slugs in my garden, which as bizarre or repulsive as it sounds, the plan worked nearly 100%. I told them I would leave some compost, at the corners of the garden if they left my veggies alone. If I found a straggler on a collard leaf or ripening tomato, I placed them in the corner and pointed out to them what they were missing and reminded them of the deal. Their favorite was a large watermelon rind where they all gathered. The garden has been and continues to be very important and lots of fun. Snacking out of my garden is a great pastime which began when I was a child with my best friend when we used to raid her parents’ garden. There was always something nice and crunchy from my mother's garden. Nowadays I'm more apt to snack on my snow peas and the little 100s tomatoes, they’re just the right size. They’ve only once made it into the kitchen for roasting at the suggestion of one of my former co-workers. I thrill at the puzzle of digging my garden potatoes. I never know what I'm going to get. Do you know of or remember the marbles we called shooters, a little bigger around than a regular marble? We also had Steelies, also a little bigger than a marble. I like to use those for measurement comparisons of my potatoes. One time I got five shooters, eight little marbles, a ping pong ball, and a pool or cue ball. If I got a tennis ball that would be quite a find. This year I got two that looked like potatoes. They were the size of two potatoes glued together. Oftentimes when I get the little ones inside the house, I clean them of dirt, the way, as reported in an earlier chapter, Trudy and I clandestinely rinsed ours under her outside faucet. We munched under high mental alertness, in fear of getting found out. In my own kitchen, I just pop a tiny shooter-sized potato into my mouth. These days with my energy waning due to age, rather than shoveling snow I broom my path out to my pellet shed or my car. I have a 5-year-old Maine Coon cat who finds his way around the paths without me having to shovel or even broom anything fancy for him. He's a feral Maine Coon who is up for any challenge. I used to pamper my first Maine Coon. I would get my snow thrower, carry it through the house make a nice path for him by cleaning off the back deck and part of the yard down below the deck for him. I'm sure he appreciated it. He was a good boy. I know he appreciated it when I continued down the steps between the box gardens to begin the path of my winter labyrinth. What a grand track it opened up for him. He could finally get some decent exercise, hopping his way through the deep snow to find other routes. I had to rescue him from some seriously deep snow. The depth was a lot deeper than his five-inch legs could handle. He began leaping with the same skill he demonstrated when he escaped through the swamp. My friend, Sandy and her two daughters, Keb and Beth were with me in his early training. That was quite an adventure. I was certain he'd drown, however, he leapt across the greenish water with the grace of a dolphin. However, just as with the slugs, I needed to make a bargain with my recent Maine Coon to stay out of my garden. If you ask me, slugs are more cooperative. My raccoon cat enjoys taunting me by weaving through my tomato plants without harming a one. The most dramatic demonstration is when he finds a vacant spot where nothing is growing in my garden and plunks himself down to bask in the sun. My other cat used to lie in the grass near the box gardens to watch me work. It was comforting to have him near. His only fault was he used to find a consistent section in my garden to bury his deposits. He was a lot like all of us who think we can just bury something like a bad experience, or a strong emotion and it won’t show up again. I always laughed as he scuffed away during the snowy seasons covering his leavings. Deposits left by my other cat always ended up right where I stood under the clotheslines. My present cat is too busy chasing around until it's time for him to come in. His routine strikes me odd or ironic to observe how he comes into the house to use his litter box. At least he's not leaving them outside where I walk. To some of my friends and me, the labyrinth was a spiritual garden, where healing, resolution, and unexplainable joy could be found. It was very gratifying for me to hear the six-year-old son of my dear friend and co-worker say, "You know what I really, really like so much? The maze. Every day after school, I have to force my mother to take me to the maze, I have to force her. It is my favorite thing to walk it. I just love it.” He went to school right near my house and it was a nice end to his stressful day. I wrote a poem about my labyrinth. ******************* My Labyrinth I know my goal In the midst of swirling lines I set foot upon the path of unknowing Hoping to gain Clarity Insight Serenity As I sense I am drawing nearer The center I am thrust outward to find yet a new perspective to prepare for that inner discovery My steps hesitate For too short a time I must move toward Not to recoil from life’s turmoil Bring to it The light received from my journey inward When it seems I have moved away from the center I am beckoned in the direction of the core of my being There I find all meaning Growth happens in spirals and cycles All I need do is study the tree Which shades my footpath Through the seasons Both bitter and sweet It is here I find the answer to my questions It is here I find solace from my answer Both bitter and sweet The journey is as important as the goal
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Liz O'Neill
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