There are critters here. Lurking in the dark, scurrying in the undergrowth, peering into the gloom from their surveilling perches in trees. In the long-decaying wood piles stacked at the periphery. In the loam and mould of the compost piles. Owls. Lizards. Snakes. Bees. Wasps. Beetles. This is a place for them.
Nothing needs to happen here other than the passing of days, the shining of the sun, the waxing and waning of the moon, sometimes falling rain, and critters finding a home. We dedicate this place to that.
The hub and the bub pass by this postage stamp in suburbia. But the wood piles up. Leaves decompose. Giant Stag Beetles live out their long lives. In some small way, this is a still point of the turning world, a slice of stillness in the midst of chaos.
We do not claim to be gardeners in the usual sense. Borers hollow out the zucchinis. The tomatoes are taken by the birds. Squirrels steal the apples before they ripen. The cucumber blossoms don’t bear fruit. Still… we try to work like gardeners. In the stillness. In the quiet. In the sufficiency of our days.
