The poor plant… I was proud to have saved it. With simple care, its thin branches had flourished again. And then, without me abandoning her, she quickly lost her leaves, as if she was out of breath with so much effort, so much so that one day I abruptly cut her, almost out of pity.
I thought she was dying. Its leaves tarnished, dried faster than my own skin. I must say that I haven’t replaced his land in a long time. My neighbour had warned me though. I promised myself every weekend that I would do it or, at the very least, I would go get some fertilizer.
Anyway, I abandoned her? A little, yes. She told me two months ago, all leaves curled up in the pain of drying out. So, like an insensitive person who realizes his clumsiness, I started watering him again, promising him that he would feel better when I soon changed his land and maybe even a new pot.
But now, despite everything, she starts giving flowers again, smelling either her death or spring. Basically, these two seasons are probably the same thing. I started throwing the coffee grounds around her. It may be that, or simply that this act of generosity is enough to restore his confidence. I’ll have to replace his floor too…
I am sixty years old today, my story, yours, theirs, is about the same thing, the same vibrations of existence which, depending on the earth where the roots, the nostrils, get their food, give fruits, ideas, violence or stars.
How much time do I have left to live? Do I need to know that? My parents called me this morning and covered me with their words of love, my father still calling me “his little boy”.
We exclaimed about the snow that keeps covering their house, the neighbour who came to clear the roof, the other who pulled up the garbage bins because the ground was slippery. They are happy to be surrounded by caring neighbours.
Of course we talked about old age, Mommy saying not to believe that sixty years have already passed since she gave birth to me. We left each other by kissing through these telephone waves that no longer require wiring.
Really, everything is waves, flowers and renewal. Every second we live is a day that we can renew, reinvent over and over again. At my age, as they say, we resign ourselves to this quiet, haunting, melancholic wisdom of autumn.
The older I get, the more I feel like a monk, a bird, unnecessarily free and conscious of the joy of living. I don’t write this to make it sweet. I do not want to obey myself with honeyed maxims, but I will say this all the same, before I make my daily amen: We must carry high, and in silence, the powerful torch of our consciousness and do what it takes to participate fully and completely in the great work of the Universe.
I submit to it. I have no choice, and that’s fine.