My garden glows.

The one thing I have difficulty saying goodbye to, is my former back garden. Years ago, I actually bought the house based on this garden. I dug up an old tree stump myself and took out the spiny bushes that first summer, getting scratched up and sweaty, but my little girls needed a safe space, and I immersed in that garden, made it mine, made it ours.

It has a peace to it, a sense of serenity in suburbia, bordered by a haphazardly painted wooden fence. Its trees have sheltered me, soothed me, provided a backdrop to my thoughts and ideas. My children have played here in stages. They have been horrified by the idea of sitting on -something as foreign as- grass as babies. They have learnt to walk on the ground, eaten mud when they thought I was not looking, and build little deformed snowmen with little dark peering eyes and wide-gap smiles made of pebbles. They have unfurled, much like the trees and flowers and grass. The garden has been a space of lush, unfettered grass-stained growing.

During these last few weeks, I have stolen moments to sit on a chair in the yard, eyes closed. The sunlight a flickering red-haze, sensed through eyelids shut in spirit.
I am surrounded by the bright souls of my children sparkling in their element.

The gold light projects streaks of afternoon amber on the grass blades, sheared embers like the reflection of a bottle of cognac on a sunlit wall.
My trees lean in, draped casually in scarves of whispering, waving leaves, slurring slightly as the breeze licks through them tenderly.
Dirt, the soiled dust powder glows cleanly. Dovi's halfway down a hole he has dug, luxuriates in the earth coating his hands.
The wind blusters by, in wide open spirals like skywriting dreams, in gusts, remembered in fragments as they whirl away.
The white wooly whorls of smoky islands drifting endlessly, shedding and regenerating, the wise gray matter of the heavens neverland.
Rocks, stolidly squat, absorbing the warmth with slow sentience. They have always been there and always will, long after we are gone.

I sink into my chair, both more and less then what's sitting here. Something inside me, reaches out into the sunlight, and abstractly soul-kisses the source of it, and I can't help uncreasing like a flower, loosening, breaking the burning knots and aches, and becoming.
So much still to be determined, even for someone as determined as I. So much to do, but the stillness, the natural noise is healing, soothing. Everybody says it will all fall into place, and in these moments, I can see it keenly, tinted in gold leaf.