Fig Trees

Under the figs is Harry-ette - our hen who crows, doesn’t lay eggs and does not mate with the hens. We love them.

Yesterday I pruned the 3 or was it 4 (it was 5) fig trees - they were a real tangle - and after a late summer of being tangled in their bows I was only too happy to lop off a few of the most tiresome ones - and the day was sheer brimming with winter sun and a light breeze - perfect weather for such a job.

The weather report said rain at 8pm - there was instead a sky shot with stars that I walked in around this fertile crescent under your warm wooly blanket. And then, it came - midnight - the rain. My gut twisted - the fig trees! What have I done? Exposing their soft cut limbs to water borne fungi - aghast, all I could do was accept the possibility of some infection and spray microorganisms on the little grove if disease indeed showed up.

I also sat at the piano and tried to record an old christian song from my youth - wanted to give ‘church’ to the online world - but no, the performer in me would not allow it - even still more the budding coach - who was told by a maybe client yesterday that I better not be peddling God.

I’m not. And I don’t think I ever will again - but such expressions of the heart from the piano and voice may indeed label me somewhat. No bothers. I am becoming who I am becoming and no manner of social strictures or risk to my reputation (whatever that tattered thing is) will stop this.

Swallow, swallowed by death, such beauty