She Weeds
::She sits at the edge of the cleared area in the shade, her back against a
tree. The journal in her lap, she alternately writes and stares off across to
the treeline opposite. Her fingers curve around the edge of the book, the
writing instrument drawn across her lower lip as she thinks.::
I could not remain in the cabin this morning, so I came out to finish the
weeding before the sun rose too high. The smell of bread baking and blackwine
was an almost overwhelming temptation. Yesterday he did not allow me to eat. He
asked if I was hungry enough to beg for food.
As he said those words, I pictured homeless people who lived beneath a bridge in
Washington. I went there once with a group of friends to distribute food in the
cold. We did not take much...baked potatoes wrapped in foil drizzled with
something we jokingly called squeeze cheese, a beverage, an orange and a few
cookies... all bundled together in a paper bag. A few acted disinterested even
though they took the food; others scurried to us, arms out thrust begging for an
extra bag. Hands stretched out, palm upward, asking for coins. "Spare change ...
spare food?" "Please, may I have some more?"
I knelt before him last night and watched him eat soup and bread. In answer to
his question I said, yes, I was hungry ... and asked to be allowed to eat. He
said it is a privilege to eat ... an indulgence. Then he told me to take the
dishes to the sink.
I did not dare eat this morning although at Samsara he told me I was to make
certain to eat every day. Instead, I cupped a handful of water into my mouth and
went out to work.
In the pack yesterday I found an old visor hat ... I used it to shield my eyes
from the sun while I pulled the weeds. It feels strange on my head. I will bury
the pack later. By the sun, it is time to take the bread out and finish
preparing the midday meal. I also need to bathe. I do not smell of sandalwood at
the moment.