Today I lounge in the backyard, as aggravated as I am entranced by my neglected Victorian garden. It has a certain romantic air about it, overrun with weeds, with the bird bath's basin turned on its side, and the Grecian stone bench and potters hidden by greenery where only rock should exist. Nature's simplicity reigns alongside chaos...but perhaps that chaos is born from trying to tame Mother Nature. Apparently she is not one for manicures or organization.
I adore natural beauty. Perhaps it is the artist's eye, seeing the grace in the twist of branches and bramble, the sweeping lines in a dandelion stem or the fluffy softness of the flower's white seed cap, or the colors of tulips bathing in the sun. Or maybe it's the artist's ear, delighting in the way wrens, sparrows, and cardinals sing to a backdrop of mourning doves like a church choir, the way mechanical rumblings of distant mowers and tillers, and the farmer patrolling a field yet to be seeded insist so strongly of melding with the organic that they not only succeed, but become common place and expected. What would nature be if silent or barren? Certainly not beautiful.
And why am I wondering this now? Why...I believe I wonder about it all the time, but perhaps I've chosen to write about it because I admire Mother Nature's disorganization. It's to be expected.
It's the one place where such discord is in perfect harmony with the world.
