Each piece below a free-write inspired by the above image and discussion from the Mythical Writing Workshop theme Gardens.
The Garden of Eden
Blessed is the fruit of thy womb.
Harvesting the fruits of your labor – no fruit without labor, no birth without labor, and before the labor even, the seed planted at the right time, the conditions right for the soil to be fertile, the time propitious for gestation. No fruit without labor.
Nestled between the legs of the earth, the womb where it begins, a voluptuous paradise beckons us back to where we came from. Eat the peach, celebrate the bounty that can only come from sweat, exertion, grunting moaning panting at both conception and arrival. I remember reading somewhere that the root of the word fuck comes from the verb “to plant.” Repeat until we are back where we started, anew.
Children in the Garden
We wait, holding our breath, knowing the change is coming – for now, in the garden, all our needs are answered, what more could we want? Even more, we should not want – except for that tree in the center, the one forbidden thing that propels us out.
We enjoy the fruits of a harvest we did not plant, reaping what we did not sow. Honestly, it gets pretty boring, to sit here eternally in God’s beatific wonder, where every day is just as beautiful as the last.
Where will I learn the discipline to tend my own plot of land, less than perfect, but mine just the same? The fruit ripens then rots away, leaving behind the seed, to make its own way, to find the soil on its own and go from there.
The granary is full – we’ve overindulged like children sitting at a table where our grandmothers hover and keep filling our plates higher and higher though we can eat no more. Spongy and sick I feel more than full, waiting for something to die, waiting for some of that stagnant energy to convert itself into action. Ready for austerity, ready for a thinning out, even as I hear that winter is no joke and I’m going to miss all this after the first frost sets in.
Just my own plot of land, something I can tend, a place where I can see things grow knowing that I planted them, where I can turn my attention inward to cultivate the things I choose. No more walking around fat with a belly full of grain, to feel flesh melt away from the abundance of my well-fed thighs. To leave and return on my own terms, when the season is right. To take what I need from the table and turn away – to recognize when I’m full. To taste the sweetness of the fruit on the verge of rotting and know that flavor only comes when its time is just about to pass.