I've grown lazy
in the garden, and everything would be dead if it weren't
for the much-needed rainfall that ended our winter drought
last week. Now the lawn, which we let turn brown and dusty
until the rains came along and took pity on it, is lush and
verdant and keeps my husband busy for at least a couple of
hours each weekend. He resents this deeply, and I can't say
I blame him; but I like the green nonetheless.
The plants are
suffering, though. A number of them need repotting, and I
should've pruned back the rose bushes a month ago; but now
they're full of beautiful, dark red foliage and I don't
have the heart. Anyway, it's not that I don't have time to
devote to the garden, because truthfully I'm bone idle a lot
of the time. I guess we just had such a short, stinting, mildish
winter here that I feel a little cheated, and I'm reluctant
to drag myself into spring mode.
Once I do, though,
I'm bound to enjoy it. As I've mentioned before, I fancy myself
a sort of horticultural messiah, raising plants from the dead.
I really like a lost cause, always have. Had a lot of stupid
relationships because of it, early on. Seems I have the eye
to see the potential of a thing -- can see the prince in the
frog, the princess in the chambermaid, the Academy Award winner
in the struggling character actor -- as well as the conceit
to think I can coax realization from potential. Transformation
of something broken and half-dead into something beautiful
and lush is thrilling as hell. But resurrection -- bringing
forth life from death -- is a labor of love that requires
a lot of energy, and for that reason it's a tough act to pull
off.
Energy -- that
fine, pure dominion of Mars -- is, in fact, the common denominator
of life and death; hence, its astrological rulership of both
Aries (birth) and Scorpio (death). In the garden, there is
no life without death; foul, impolite, Scorpionic matter gets
turned over and around and makes the soil a rich and nutritious
thing. The hard labor of insects and enzymes, the vibrant
energy of breaking down organic material into a usable state,
is the foundation on which spring's brave and tender beauty
is built. So if all we celebrate of spring is the Aries emergence
of green and vibrant foliage, then we've lost half the story
of Mars -- the dark, earthy, breaking-down Mars of Scorpio.
I attended Catholic
grammar school for several years, and grew to love the ritual
of the church. It may sound morbid, but I always loved the
week before Easter; loved the sober, chilling Stations of
the Cross, loved that there was no Mass celebrated on Good
Friday, the day when Jesus' death on the cross was remembered.
My father's death a couple of years before had disposed me
to dwelling a bit heavily on the death side of the life/death
equation; joyful Easter Sunday, with its triumphant messages
of rebirth and the impermanence of death, just didn't resonate
for a grieving ten year old. All my new beginnings -- moving
to a new place, living in a new family structure, joining
a new religion -- had been precipitated by a sudden, violent
and quite permanent death. So Good Friday was the one day
when I felt in sync with my congregation, tuned into the passion
of the savior, testifying to the battering, violent, painful
expression of Mars in his breaking down clothes. It was many
years before I came to trust that the joyful lifeforce symbolized
by Easter is as valid as the tragic drama of Good Friday,
and that, as one is the constant companion of the other, it
is just as reliable.
On my desk is
an old photo of my sister and me, ages 6 and 5, in our frilly
blue Easter dresses, standing with our brother in our grandmother's
lush rose garden in rural Indiana. The photo's out of focus
and fading with age, and it looks exactly the way I remember
my first nine springs -- soft, hazy, tender. In my sadder
moments I wish to see life as gentle and uncomplicated as
it was then, to feel the pure Aries thrill at life's limitless
opportunities. But most days, I wouldn't trade the wisdom
of a lifetime of Scorpio's breaking down process. Loss and
savagery, failure and ruthlessness, cruelty and hurt come
to us inevitably as a natural consequence of Mars energy in
the world -- the price paid for progress -- and we lose our
innocent Aries enthusiasm soon enough; but over time it is
broken down into the rich, emotional loam of Scorpio, from
which beautiful things grow.
A new photo taken
today would look like this: Our brother has been gone for
many years now, so it's just my sister and me posing together
in the arid, postnuclear landscape of the California high
desert where she lives with her family. Instead of Easter
dresses we're wearing our customary funky leggings and big
shirts, mugging for the camera. The new photo is sharp and
clear, but look closely and you'll see a kind of softness
-- not the softness of happy, uncomplicated little girls,
but the gentleness of strong women who've lost loved ones,
had their share of disappointments and have grown deeper for
it, and closer to one another; who nurture scraggly gardens,
cozy homes, and happy families in arid terrains. Look closely
and you may glimpse giggling Aries girls in those two Scorpionic
women as they turn over the soil, drinking life deeply, sharing
a hearty laugh on a beautiful spring afternoon.
