Archangel Jophiel and I

I am stifled, stagnant, stressed and seriously strung from streetlight to streetlight There is nothing left, my energy is kaput, gone. My creativity is something I barely remember. Until I get home to my refuge in the country, my trees, my lilacs, my lilies, my tulips, my earth. I shed the cloak of heaviness, at my front door, running toward my lightest coolest dress. In seconds I am outside walking from one corner of my yard to another, taking photos. Talking to my trees, hugging them even, replenishing the bird feeders, while cardinals soar in. Butterflies light on my shoulders, dragonflies dive-bomb me, I am Snow White here. I do not whistle but I chant as I walk around my yard loving my flowers, pulling up weeds. All of the weeds have a place somewhere. I place them where nothing grows, Knowing next year they will fill up this bare spot. The only plants I do not replant are thistles. Thistles hurt so much when I step on them barefoot, and barefoot I am in my faerie yard. So I pull up the thistles and I put them into my dumpster knowing they will thrive at the dump. I have a wild rose bush I had to dig up from another place way deep in the forest. It took me six hours. I thought it would be worth it. It took four years to bloom. That fourth year I said to it “If you do not have one bloom tomorrow, I am throwing you away.” The next day I woke up to that rose bush with forty beautiful hot pink flowers. I kid you not. When I am gone for a few days my yard comes alive upon my return. The trees begin waving frantically even when there is no wind. My husband always comments on it. Archangel Jophiel and I laugh about it. She comes to me at night, and we discuss the beautiful things we have seen. We discuss the grasshoppers, bees, wasps and yellow jackets too. My yard is alive, five flower gardens in all. With unexpected visitors. I sometimes see a gorgeous snake or a handsomely painted turtle. There is a reverence and awe about it I cannot fully explain, but it amazes me always.