THE KINGDOM IN THE SPACE OF KNEELING
I am seventy-three years old, retired, and use a wheelchair. Most people see my wheelchair and assume my world has shrunk to a series of small movements confined within my home. They couldn’t be more wrong. My world hasn’t shrunk; it has simply shifted into my garden.
This little patch of land is my haven of peace, my “I’m always here” in the face of a world that often ignores me. In front, two young maple trees; to the side, three large, century-old conifers; and a garden that I tend with the fervor of a new parent. Even in the heart of winter, I’m outside. I wrap the young trees so the frost doesn’t split their fragile bark; I brush off the thick snow that covers the conifers so their weary branches don’t break. I salt my paths, following neat, precise lines, and I fill the bird feeder every morning at dawn.
