UnTime

I walked in the garden this morning though I never left the soft warm covers of my bed. Outside, I am surrounded by the unmistakable signs of winter. The ground is frozen, there is snow wherever I look, the air has a sharp edge of icy cold. Winter lights glisten from where I hung them on trees in my garden.

But the garden remains alive and and verdant in my whole body. It is a wonderful lingering experience.

I see the gentle movement of the green leaves and touch the gentle petals of blooms. The scent of the earth rises to welcome me as I move along the uneven contours of the brick path. From time to time, I hear the faint murmur of the wind in the leaves of hostas. I am aware of the soft sound of birds.

Branches of bushes reach out to touch my skin and brush against me as I pass. I feel the luxurious carpet of long green grass and smell its fragrance as I cross the yard. I observe what has changed and what remains the same. The old and the new blend in my walk.

It is, of course, a walk in my imagination. It is a vivid memory of what has been. It is also a preview, a premonition of what is yet to come. The garden is simply with me. The clutches of time have been relaxed for these moments. It is a place of untime. What was and what will be have become one in a moment of luscious presence. Knowing garden presence has taken me out of time.

I roll over in my soft bed, still in the embrace of blankets, no longer feeling the touch of leaves. The garden slowly fades away. But the ardor of its presence remains and lingers in my body. I carry it with me as I step into my timely routine.