He falls to his knees and he peers at the ground, as the sun bakes down upon the back of his neck, he looks out over his garden like it’s a rock in the middle of a stream in which he has been thrashed around in without control for some time, he needs that rock, he needs to grab hold and hang onto it. It’s his safety, his respite in troubled waters.
He reaches out and thrusts his hands into the cool, dark dirt, splays his fingers outward under the top soil, turns them over and scoops up handfuls of earth. It lies like a friend in his hand; it feels good, familiar, and substantially real.
He crawls around the various plants; the Sedums, Iris and Lilies’, pulling weeds and decaying material from under them.
He pauses now and again to relish at the site of the healthy Big Blue Hosta and the Dwarf Solomon, and takes a moment to fondle the shiny, dark, thick leaves of the English Ivy.
He spends the afternoon dividing and replanting, shoveling and raking and finally watering. As he stands there at the beginning of the evening in the late setting sun he looks down at his clothes, they are covered in dirt, his tanned arms filthy, his hands scraped and tired and he smiles. This is his reward, his therapy, his healing. From the ache in his back to the startlingly cold but refreshing water straight from the hose, this seems to be where he belongs, a place where all the pain and the troubles disappear, where his mind is free and his soul can rest.