On my walk today in the beautiful Spring-like weather, I saw evidence that the woman of the house is gone. Or more that the evidence that she was there tending to the garden and the porch has ceased. The weeds that grow and the dirt laying down on the porch furniture are telling a tale in their silence.
I am familiar with the houses and yards of the houses I’m walking by for the many stroller rides and runs I’ve taken past them. And I used to admire this one with its screened in porch and mulched plant beds. Admiration which was more like envy but the word sounds like I’m a better person. Now I feel pity for the property in the absence of that female energy. Because where that felt hopeful, this feels hopeless.
The house next door was torn down for its neglect. When we would pass by afterwards, my daughter would say, “It’s still gone”. She’s stopped now. Another house down the street is becoming overrun with weeds all around the base of the house. It screams neglect. I watch for the “for sale” sign to appear.
Our worlds are evidence of us. Others are watching even if we don’t care. We can put out inspiration or we can show the world desperation and desolation. The house doesn’t care nor do the things that grow. They sit and wait. Our humanity shines using the house and the garden as its palette. And our joy and sorrows are reflected there.
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