It’s always nice to have visitors, particularly when they bring a splash of colour and a reminder of the important stuff on this rag-tag journey through lawn-mower land.
I have been visiting our garden a lot over the past few days, and I can tell you — it’s humming.
Bees are in the lavender; butterflies are in the marigolds; dragonflies are in your face, and the man a few blocks away is in his element with a new leaf blower and Triple M radio turned up for news, sport and Bryan Adams.
I am always a visitor to our garden because it really is the domain of the Chief Gardener, who plans, propagates and tends to the living things that shepherd colour and quiet drama into our lives. I heave the occasional spade as payment for enjoying the sensory delights of her toil and attention.
Sometimes, she gets down on her hands and knees to pull out pale slivers of oxalis root systems, which I consider a pointless task because I know, just like Beatles melodies, they will return and proliferate their joy at being alive. Again and again. You’ll never get rid of them.
At other times, she stands, straightens her back and puts her hands on her hips. I then know she is surveying her domain, this one triangle of madness over which she can maintain some control despite the deluge of gambling ads, insurance sales and news of the Gaza Strip horrors floating over the fence.
I am watching now from my writer’s window — perched in front of a screen on which I record the comings and goings of our days.
Today, she brings a butterfly into the light of the late afternoon kitchen.
She found it on the ground at the base of a tree. It has black and white smudges on its wings, which are spread as if it is about to become airborne like an art nouveau stealth bomber. She says it stayed perfectly still as she looked at it. Then she realised it was dead. So, she gently picked it up, and now it sits on a piece of wood on our kitchen shelf among the indoor plants and other reminders of the alternative life out there.
It looks unreal sitting on its indoor perch like a delicate piece of costume jewellery. A few moments ago, it was fluttering between flowers. Now, it is suspended somewhere between life and death. It looks pretty beautiful and gloriously alive. But it’s a beautiful ghost.
I lean in to examine the intricate framework of its powdered wings, which I’ve learned are made from proteins, scales and veins. There is nothing to match the fragile elegance of the dainty swallowtail that I can think of in the human world.
For a moment, my thoughts run free, and they settle on a flower imprinted with the paintbrush of God. Is this how faith is nurtured? Is there really a divine creator behind all this? Or is it another example of the beautiful mathematics of Darwin?
Later on, the radio tells me five people have died in an inexplicable incident at a Daylesford pub. This comes with more news from Gaza, possible interest rate rises and Melbourne Cup celebrity visitors.
I know with dull predictability, this will be all over our digital feeds, television, radio and newspapers for the next few days.
It’s time for another garden visit to find out the real news.