Standing with my arms akimbo, I surveyed the grassy plot where last year’s tomato plants, corn stalks, and bean bushes protruded through the soil as though desperately breaching the surface for a gasp of air.  Surely there would be no better spot on this great estate – the soil being fertile and the sun being prevalent there throughout the length of the day – for a reestablishment of my vegetable garden.  With an eventual decisiveness which can only come through strife for the full-blooded Libra, I began to till the breadth of this twenty-square allotment, consecrating it once again as a soil-bed for the cultivation my own sustenance.

To-day, I have the sensation of sore extremities to remind me of this imposition of my will upon the crust of the Earth.  Yea, the top-soil did kindly yield to the Good nature of my purpose, but not without the friendly assertion of its newly-assumed identity as solid ground.  In process, I was reminded of my own buried philosophy that this sort of toil in cahoots with Mother Earth is her own natural anti-depressant.  As a man of clear purpose, despondency has long been absent from my experience, but I would freely admit to the upheaval of my senses from a somewhat torpid state as a direct result of this laborious communion with Nature.  I have relished those moments when thought alone has resulted in epiphany, and have often basked in the veritable euphoria of the meditative state; but nothing has consistently delivered me from delusion like the experiential recognition of my-self as One with Nature.  Do not assume, kind reader, that such a state of awareness and objectivity must-needs-be catalyzed by auxiliary substances.  No!  Even a homeopathic dose of properly administered fresh air can effectively remedy the most intractable malaise!

Magically – as the effect of a single thought – there lies a ready-ground for the embedment of all manner of indigenous vegetation, just outside my studio door.  Once again I must combat my Libran propensity for indecision and select those plants to-day whose fruit I might fervidly savor to-morrow.  Assuredly, a trip to the Farmer’s Market will present a manageable array of options for that far-off meal.  Thankfully, this is the extent of my worries.

The Earth-bound,
Mister Hazelwood