Sense of Self: What We Name, We Are

Bindweed. Creeper vine. Bittersweet. An August bounty of weeds. Some cool morning, I'll be in the little patch of garden trying to tear out the vines. The vines will win.

I will come away with even more metaphors for how a garden is life. More metaphors for one's sense of self, one's exploration of identity, one's reasons for persisting.

The vines, the semi-wild perennials, the sweet-scented rose. Too much sun and too much rain, both.

All building up to that killing frost...

Now she's lost her wits, you'd say, talking about frost on a summer day.

And you'd be right!