The Rock

You stand under a rock
Both hands up, stretching, shaking.
The place beneath, green, inviting
"Picnic?" you ask.
"Yes. Lovely idea."

Soft bread, cool water,
grapes, oranges
A creek nearby sings
a soft song

With one hand up, holding the rock
You reach out and stroke my face
"Beautiful." you say.
"Yes, it is." I agree.
"No, you are beautiful."
"In the shade, how can  you see my face?"
I want to say.
But I know he's looking at a memory.
As am I.
So I say nothing.

The rock teeters
I step backwards
off the blanket.
Back into the sunshine.

Warmth surrounds me.
I see him, he's still standing with the rock,
holding it with both hands now.
Telling me "It's okay. I can hold you and the rock
simultaneously."
"But you can't."
He lets go with one hand, reaches out
to me, and the rock tilts, grazing my scalp.
I dart away just in time to see it hit the ground behind me.
Dust flies around me while I slip away.

From a distance, I see him pick up the rock again,
with both hands.
He has to carry his rock
Up a hill.
 He doesn't need to stop
for a picnic. The winter is coming
and it's harder to climb in the snow.

I walk into the forest, which used to look
dark and foreboding.
The mid-day sun breaks through the leaves
making dancing shadows on the earth.

I'm walking, looking, listening.
wondering if he has left yet, to start his climb.
I want to look back, but I know that I musn't.
It would pull the clouds over him, over me.
Blocking our view of the world.
Things that we need to see.

My rock is behind me.
I carried it for sixteen years.
That was exactly the amount of time
I had to carry it
to build the strength I needed
to do the job in front of me now.

I don't know what lies ahead of me, but I do know
where I am.
It is a place in the woods,
where little flowers are blooming,
the kind that need dampness,
and a good measure of darkness.

I smell honey and apples.
And hear baby birds calling for their mother.
I'm thirsty and hungry, but I know
abundant food is just on the other side of this forest.
I'll keep walking.

Growing Weeds

by Kathy T. Camp

I didn’t ever plan to garden. It started as another project. A good friend, the kind that tells you what you don’t want to hear, started this thing.
“You need to do something with your anger, try weeding your flower bed,” she suggested.
“But I don’t have a flower bed.” I responded. That wasn’t a good answer. Before she said it, I could hear it in my head, “Well, plant one.”


I am not a gardener. But I admire them. Growing things just makes sense. It’s not just about the economics, though. Putting tiny flakes of organic matter in the ground, covering them with wet dirt, and watching little white arms reach out to me, is something I’ve come to enjoy.

A few days after the conversation with my friend, I piled my kids in the car and headed for the dollar store. A rack of seed packets, with a sign: “10 for $1.00,” stood in the distance. I cheered. “Kid’s help me pick out some flowers!” My two year old son grabbed sunflowers, carrots and rutabagas. My girls handed me varieties of flowers I couldn’t pronounce. I didn’t read the backs of the little envelopes, I just plopped them in the buggy, grabbed a watering can and headed to the check out.

That same day, as I began heaving the hoe, my oldest asked, “Mamma, why are you chopping up our grass?”

“I’m chopping up dirt so I you can plant your seeds.”

Each child had their own area in the yard, and I had mine. We planted flowers in all of them. I waited. Not for the seedlings, but for the weeds. I couldn’t wait to pull them. I recalled the advice, “Pretend you are yanking out someone's hairs- by the root.”

Then it happened. The moment I’d been waiting for. I was angry, really angry. I rinsed off the breakfast dishes and coaxed the kids outdoors. I went to the closest flower bed, knelt down, and started pulling. I wasn’t sure which sprouts were the weeds. The seedlings were so tiny still. I felt the sun on my back as I made a pile of seemingly harmless little green stems.

My kids ran around the yard, rode trikes, played in the summer sun. I turned on the water hose and asked for help watering. We all ended up wet, muddy, laughing. Day after day I weeded those flowers, certain that I’d figure out a way to change the things and the people that made me so angry.



By the middle of the summer, I wound up with three flower beds bursting with color. My favorite one was an awkward cluster of sunflowers in the middle of my yard, connected to absolutely nothing else. It was like an oasis of summertime.

I began to spend my mornings outside sipping coffee and admiring the previous owner’s plant selections: blueberry bushes, azaleas, dogwood trees, a single tulip tree. I liked my yard.

One of my children pointed out, “Mamma, don’t you think you need to weed your flowers?”

As I sat on the porch gazing out at the flowers, it dawned on me that I hadn’t weeded in more than a week. Then I realized it. The tightness in my chest was gone. My usual inner dialogue of ‘what if’s’ and ‘if only’s’ had fallen silent. Somehow, I had weeded out my own personal kudzu: anger.

I haven’t had a flower bed in a couple of years. That’s because I don’t need to weed anymore. But I do need flowers. Today and enjoyed the absence of the arctic blast; he wore out his welcome here in Georgia three weeks ago. As I walked around my yard, looking at the brown areas where my flowers used to grow, I felt an urge. Not to spread a blanket on the ground and read a book, which is my true nature, I wanted to grab a hoe and start chopping up the thawed earth. I wanted to put my hands in the soil and rub it between my fingers, pinching large clumps into tiny crumbs. Then I wondered, “Does the dollar store still have the seed special?” I guess I am a gardener.



Trimming the Tulip Tree

Kathy T. Camp 

      I’m not a gardener. But I admire them. Growing things just makes sense. It’s not just about the economics, though. Putting tiny flakes of organic matter in the ground, covering them with wet dirt, and watching little white arms reach out towards me puts things in perspective.

      I didn’t ever plan to garden. It started as another project. A good friend, the kind that tells you what you don’t want to hear, said I seemed to be seething with anger most of the time. “Try weeding your flower bed,” she suggested. “But I don’t have a flower bed.” I responded. That wasn’t a good answer. I knew the answer before she said it, “Well, plant one.”

A few weeks earlier I had a cart full of toilet paper, graham crackers and a bouncy ball when I caught a glimpse of seeds for sale.  “Come on kids, we’re going to the dollar store!” I was delighted to see the rack sporting a card, “10 for $1.00” I almost cheered. “Kid’s help me pick out some flowers!” My two year old son grabbed some sunflowers and carrot seeds. My girls handed me varieties of flowers I couldn’t pronounce. I didn’t bother reading the backs of the little envelopes, I just plopped them in the buggy, grabbed a nozzle for the hose, a watering can and headed to the check out.

My kids stood beside me as I began slinging the hoe. One of them asked, “Mamma, why are you chopping up our grass?”

“I’m chopping up dirt so we can plant the flowers.” Each child had their own area of the yard, and I had mine. We planted all four of them. I waited. Not for the seedlings, but for the weeds.

I planted the flower garden. I waited. Not for the seedlings, but for the weeds. I couldn’t wait to pull them. I was confident that my seething anger would just disappear when I yanked out the weeds. I was told to pretend that I was yanking out the hairs of someone’s head. “Imagine it’s his head, or whomever you are angry at. And pull ‘em out by the roots. You’ll feel better.”

Then it happened. The moment I’d been waiting for. I was really angry. Angry at my life. Nothing specific, just feeling like I’d been dealt a bad hand. So, I marched out to the flower garden and started yanking. While I did, my kids ran around the yard, spraying each other with water, riding their bicycles, digging up worms, laughing. I found myself laughing, too. Day after day I weeded the garden, certain that my new anger management was going to help me deal more kindly to the person who was making me so angry. By the end of the summer, I wasn’t feeling angry much anymore, but I don’t think it was pulling weeds that changed me. I think simply deciding to channel my thoughts in a new direction, created something. My anger was the weed, like kudzu, and had nearly choked out  my joy in life.

I came to appreciate the hard work the previous owners had put into the yard. The blueberry bushes, the daffodils, the azaleas, dogwoods and my favorite, the tulip tree. The following spring, as I sat outside admiring the buds on all my trees, I asked my children to pick up some sticks in place them in the kindling box. “It’s gonna be chilly tonight, I’ll build a fire with them.”

A few minutes later my daughter knocked on the door. “Zebbie’s getting you a lot of kindling mamma. He’s chopping down the tulip tree.”

“What? The tulip tree?”

“Yea mamma. It’s dead.”

I ran to see this event. Certain she was mistaken. Nope. There he stood, slinging his little hatchet. The 6 inch branch was nearly severed. “Mamma, I can’t get it, it’s really hard.”

I breathed in and out, counted to ten, then twenty, before answering.

“Honey, this tree isn’t dead. It’s alive and green. See the inside?”

I pointed to the splintered branch dangling like a loose tooth.

“But there are no leaves on this tree?” he looked confused.

I pointed out the buds and explained that it was not quite awake yet. “In a week or so there will be beautiful blooms on this tree. It’s my favorite tree in the yard.”

“I know mamma. That’s why I picked this one, cause you love it so much.”

That was three years ago. Last week, when we had that first day of 70 degree heat after what seemed an endless winter of Antarctica’s jet stream, I walked around my yard, checking the plants.

I noticed that the tulip tree has put out many new small branches where it was pruned. One bunch on each side of the tree. The branches have buds.

I also realized that I haven’t had a flower garden in two years. It’s Friday night, and I’m headed to HomeDepot for some bags of topsoil. I’m remembering my hands digging in the dirt that first summer I planted flowers. I loved the feel of the cool dirt, the smell of the musty ground and the sun on my back.

      I know what I’m going to do Sunday afternoon. We’re going to the Dollar Store for the seed special. I guess I am a gardner. 

A Lovely Couple

Pink Lady Slippers in the Wild

Paying for Air

Something heavy on my heart today.



I’m not sure if it’s the murder,


Or something dead in me.


This morning, it felt like the world was a dark, dry place.


Barren. No joy. No life.






But I looked around and saw life everywhere.


The cat sitting on my bed pillow.


The sound of my son’s feet hitting the floor


After I hollered, “Mornin’ kids. Time to get up.”


With a forced effort at sounding cheerful.






As I walked down to put my clothes in the drier,


To toss away the wrinkles,


I wished I could just climb in the drier too,


And maybe toss away whatever


Seemed to have a grip on my spirit.






It’s as if something, or someone, was pulling me down


Towards the ground,


Wanting to watch me fall.


I kept moving,


Walking past objects that were


Looking like a nice place to rest.


My bed. My favorite blue chair,


Even the hard piano stool


Looked comfortable.






On the garage, the icy air seemed to bounce


Off my skin as I piled a few split logs


Into my arms.






I tossed a couple of pieces of fatlighter


Onto the coals, watching the flames


Reach up towards the new wood.


I watched the burning


And time seemed frozen.






I chose a different route to work


After filling up my gas tank.


Instead of hopping on the interstate


I wound through the low hills,


Hoping that I could unwind


The spool inside of me


That seemed too tight.






But nothing loosened.


It’s still there-


A choking feeling,


Like I have to pay for


The air that I breathe today.

Car Show's Are Really Cool