I wonder sometimes at what other people think when they are out in their gardens, pulling weeds...what they think when they see a dying tomato plant, why that particular plant simply started to turn yellow and die, whereas the one next to it is still thriving...

To me, the garden is a profound place. When I thump my hoe in the soil, it forms a beat, and I wonder if all music wasn't born like that, from the sound of repeatedly cultivating the earth with crude implements and trying to make something grow.

Maybe the beat did make it grow.

I look at the plants with their diversity. I see curly hair in my beans. I see brown eyes in potato leaf tomatoes. I see weak looking plants that produce amazing fruit, and vigorous plants that produce nothing but leaves... and I wonder.

Every year is different. With the same seeds in the same spot in the same garden, planted at the same time...everything can come out different and you start to wonder if maybe...just maybe everything that you believe is a coincidence, based on what you witnessed one growing season.

And you start to wonder about the weeds. So persistent and suited to survival. Why? Why not dine on pigweed, lambs quarters, and purslane instead of tomatoes? They're all edible and more nutritious than tomatoes. Why do we pull them out? Who said they're weeds?

I often wonder if other people function the same way...if their garden is simply a place where they grow vegetables, or if it is a profound metaphor for life that constantly challenges them- an ancient patch of dirt that has seen more life than anybody will ever know. The garden has something to teach to those who will listen. I wonder who listens. I really do.