The Ngong Hills

I had a farm in Africa once, at the foot of the Ngong hills.

Well, okay, no not really … I’ve never even lived on a farm.  The closest I ever gotten to farming is Farmville and I’m thinking that raising psychedelic, color-changing sheep and purple pigs doesn’t really count.

I did have a little garden one time … a balcony garden.  I had little redwood planters filled with rows of multi-colored primroses that thrived in the rainy Pacific Northwest weather.

And when I lived near the ocean, I had big planters of fushias and geraniums on my porch … but the deer who lived in the neighborhood ate all the pretty flowers … end of story on that, lesson learned.

Several years ago, I planted three treelings in the backyard of the house I lived in … they must be fairly big by now, but I wasn’t given visitation rights after I moved, so who knows.

I have no plants at all these days except for the beautiful trees outside my windows.

So what am I getting at … hmmmmm.  That “bloom where you’re planted” thing has already been way overdone and so has that “wherever you go, there you are.”  Not that there’s anything wrong with that … those … whatever….

And I don’t ever want to live on a farm … I’ve heard all the stories from the people who grew up on them and that’s all I need to know.

And I have no desire to go to Africa except for the part that’s Israel … unless that’s Asia ….

I went out for a Big Spoon frozen Y with a friend yesterday and she was telling me that eventually, after all her pets have died, she’d like to sell her house and then rent again so that she doesn’t have to work all week just to have to pull the weeds and mow the grass and fix the broken pipes on the weekends.

And I was sitting there listening and thinking, “Huh … doesn’t being a grown-up mean that you’re supposed to own a house that constantly needs repairs and a yard that has to be weeded, mown and pruned?  And isn’t renting a house or an apartment supposed to be financially unsound?”

Sometimes I wonder what being a grownup is like and I daydream about flowers in a garden, crickets and a dog bounding around in a backyard … being “settled” so to speak.

And yet here’s a person who’s trying to tell me that she would like to be UNsettled.

“The grass is always greener on the other side” is another oldie but goodie.  But I dunno … is that what I want to write about?

Is it about wanting to have a garden?

There are Community Gardens, but that’s a little too “Collective” for me.

I’ve been working on trying to visualize my next abode so that the Universe can get clear on where it’s supposed to send me.  And I’ve learned that I have to be kind of vague about the details.

For instance, if I visualize moving to a specific city or town, that doesn’t work because I can dream about, say, moving back to a town I’ve lived before, but what I’m really dreaming of is not a place but a certain *time* of my life and there definitely ain’t no goin’ back in time … which is probably a good thing.

So I’m visualizing random pieces of the whole … kind of like a jigsaw puzzle … and then when I get enough pieces together, I’ll see where I am supposed to be.  Or … I’ll just find myself there.

I’m thinking one piece is a porch for flowering shrubs and delicate primroses.  And there’s the proximity-to-the-ocean thing … and the must-have-cool-weather (air-conditioner not necessary) thing.  And another piece would be trees and several others would be cats and dogs.

A washer-dryer hookup has to fit in there somewhere too.  I have paid my dues on laundromats, thank-you very much.

Rain would be nice but not all the time and some good ol’ gloomy morning fog and chill too.  A quiet place to write — a desk and a window — has to fit in along with, perhaps, a few nice petsitting clients.

So there are some of the pieces — just kinda scattered all over the table, so to speak, waiting to interlock into a lovely picture.  And the bonus would be a human being to share it all with.

So I guess it’s basically puzzles that I’m writing about.  The big what-it-means-to-be-a-grownup puzzle and the where-do-I-belong (in more ways than one) puzzle.  The where-can-I-grow-primroses puzzle.

I’ve already got most of the pieces put together of what I *don’t* want — I guess that’s a wise ol’ grownup thing.  Now I’m just quietly puzzling over where all the other pieces go.

©October 2011 by Phyllis J. Hanniver

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About pjh95811

I am a writer and poet living in California. I love cats, dogs, nature, poetry, spirituality and the Pacific Ocean.
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