I’ve not been able to write. My heart is heavy. With so much at stake, so many big issues, so much pain and suffering, what is the use of my little garden? What is the use of my words or thoughts? They are of no use, at all. I cannot add anything to this conversation. I am superfluous. The more that this thin ‘house of cards’ that is our society begins to break down, the more clearly I see how false and unstable it really was. I am confronted by my own privilege. I am confronted by my comforts. I cannot figure out how to be useful, how to help. I have no answers. I am learning. I am sad.

My garden is also a prayer of sorts. Not just a place I go to calm my thoughts and anxieties, but also a sort of hope in the future. Nature heals. I try to go outside when I can’t think of what else to do. Here I can see the reality of the world, the systems, the interconnectedness, the perfection, the ideal. Nothing I write here can sound anything but trite. The garden is the place to be right now.