Great googly moogly, I love reading Lia Purpura.
I told her I’d never had much luck with my own gardens, how they were always a mess, everything straying and overrunning the beds, getting out of hand and defiant, that it was not at all relaxing. She described the gardens she’d always kept. She spoke of her roses, zinnias, dahlias, the tangle of vines netting over, everything crammed in a too-small space. “You know,” she said in her thick accent, “I love them all. All the weeds and flowers. I keep even the dandelions in.” I remember thinking I recognize that. And I remember feeling shaken by the recognition, the neatness and the wildness unresolved. That she was not, could not be, discerning. I remember staring into the dirty gray weave of the seat in front of me. I remember thinking, uneasily, This is the only way anything will ever make sense to me.