Being a bush woman is no joke.
Seriously. No, I mean it. It is not for the faint of heart, the weak, the unaware, or the idealist.
I fell into the idealist. The one, who looking out in her garden, says, "I am so attuned to Mama Earth. We are like, the same." Standing near the doorway in a peasant blouse and maxi skirt.
I am so connected to my Mama, I don't need gloves, tools, or herbicides. We know each other. I know she gives me life, and she knows how much I appreciate this.
She would NEVER let me experience any negative, nature affects.
Skipping out, bare feet in the dirt, skirt swaying in the breeze, making my way to my new garden.
Indiana's rainfall affects in full view. Tiny sprouts of unwanted, extra greens, encroaching on my idealized version of nature.
"Ugh. Why are you growing here? I don't want you. You're ruining my garden." Detesting Mama's little baby greens. Without care or much thought, I bend down. Yank, pull, tackle. The fight is on and I will win.
Mama and our Oneness gone.
Determined to uproot anything I deem unworthy of life, I lose all awareness of my surroundings, and focus on the mission.
I am a Destroyer on a mission to save my Creation.
Ripped roots and greens surround me. I smile, wiping my forehead. Standing up, I gather the evidence of my crimes against Mama. I throw her dead babies in the compost pile.
Mama is far from my mind, sitting in the dark theater listening to Seth Rogen whine about his life. Scratching the itch on my forehead. Weird. I really itch. Is it the theater? The itch begins to burn. My face feels funny, numb. I put it aside until I leave the theater.
One steroid shot and 3 benadryls later, Mama's 3 leaf babies come back to haunt me. She has avenged their death. Her poison, Ivy.
I now know, being a bush woman is no joke.