The lonesomeness to it... this kind of sheltered seclusion and quietness which, to my eye, is revealed in all its nakedness, like a sad melody... I can taste the strangeness which shrouds it. I can feel the melancholy which dresses it and gifts the acrid September air with sacred chants and sad low key songs... like an ancient European cemetery...
That's how the garden comes to me this morning; blanketed, as it is, by an endless gray sky, heavy with the prediction of rain... achromatic shades stretching out between white, and black and this sorts of low colorfulness which, in its own magnificent way, impels in me despondency and makes my heart sing low, and with the same intensity.
What I see around me humbles me and exalts me too. Transition. Fade. A final burst of green and growth. The falling away of the leaves and roses, the sleepy garden standing resolute and quiet, knowing its limits and times. It’s beautiful and tragic, as life and death always are.
And thus, I am strolling my sanctuary in slow motion; perhaps strolling it for a last time, or at least for a long while... I am leaving tomorrow to meet my husband at our new place. I may come back in the middle of October. I may not. And the garden knows this very well, and as a way of saying goodbye, it's been gifting me, out of its own free will, with unexpected little jewels: a single rose in sleepy bushes, a new growth amidst the dying... new bright colors under this strange, yet alluring peacefulness, so inherent of ancient cemeteries—roses, and petals posing as poignant collections of graves covered with seashells.
It’s beautiful and sad to watch, to witness, to walk and pray here one more time, and listen to the garden, as it relates its understory under the cold mornings of the end of another September.