Sunday, July 28, 2002

Pruning the roses.
It would have passed for a spring day today, if not for the cold. Standing in the shadows. It was bitterly cold, though not much warmer in the sun. Today could only be descibed as Odd Job Day. Ken climbed the ladder and cleaned out the gutter. An assortment of tennis balls were blocking the way. Once cleared he flushed out what could only be described as sludge, decomposed matter oozing out water. I'm glad it was him and not me.

And the pruning of the roses, I couldn't bring myself to prune them, even though they will come back much stronger and healthier in spring. My roses are no longer beautiful as once they were. They are frail looking, wasted stalks, shadows of their former selves. I've decided that I'm going to keep a photographic journal of the metamorphosis that occurs over the next few months.

Thinking about the change in seasons and the changes that take place in the rose garden, made me consider the seasons, the changes that take place in all our lives. A series of ups and downs, high points and low lights. Life and death are often events that we have no real control over. That is why I document my journey, the terrain travelled, the good, the bad, the love and the loss; to map the seasons of my existance.

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