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More
than natural
Be similar to nature.
JP
It
feels good in my father's garden. Flowers are few and had been all
planted by my mother by the walls and paths. Not in the middle, no! In
the center there's no garden at all, but a vegetable plot where, in
Summer, one can see the maize growing, day after day, just after
broadbeans and peas already gone to the table or to the sun, to dry.
My father's garden it's not big, but weighed by a hoe it became enormous
to dig. Now one ploughs with a tractor, for twenty five euros a day, but
my father wanted that ground gave us hard work to dig. Therefore my
father's garden was sprinkled of sweat and somethimes a little blood
from our hands' blisters.
In my father's garden we feel so good! Why?... Because plants that grow
there are not the kind of one smell's only, single coloured flower,
equal flavor herb. Alltogether they join: the pretty ones wriggled with
the ugly ones, the tasty and the bitter ones closely mixed, the
flavourful curled by those that pretend being good for nothing.
Dog's grass always grow stronger than broadbeans and peas, therefore if
we leave them simply growing they'll kill everything. We have to cut out,
without rest and we have to weed, and reap. And when the naughty nettles
prop to maize, one gets angry with the lack of skill to cut them off and
if fool enough to pull them out just like that with bare hands, cursing
against the pricks:
- Damned nettles!
Damned
nettles after pricking, become weeds again after being weeding, perhaps
only a little stubborn in their eternal mood of pretending being bad.
Perhaps that's the reason why, we insist not to kill them with herbicide.
At
the sick lands around my father's garden there are neither weeds, nor
nettles. If carrots are born, there will be only carrots. If potatoes
are born only potatoes you have. And when the plagues arrive they eat
everything because there are only good things there. Perhaps that's the
reason why there are so few plagues within my father's garden. Here one
knows that weed and nettles also like good soil, one also knows that
when the ugly grass (the one that pretends being good for nothing) stops
growing, soon after the plagues will come and the leaves once green and
luxuriant will become yellow and dry.
Ahhh!
It's, so good to find myself late in the afternoon looking at it, just
like was watering the ground with my eyes... And I feel like
sprouting... There, from the porch of the dojo, from that same shed that
once was a stable (yes, in my father's garden fencing with juniper poles
was reserved to sunset - at noon there was always work to be done),
there I find myself thinking:
-
Why? Why does one feels so good at my father's garden?
José
Patrão |
