The Mint Patch Monologue

Tag: flowers

  • 30 Summers

    The end of June has me thinking about time…

    My work of 40 hours a week comes in quick, and early on Monday mornings. The daily routine begins with coffee, answering phone calls, answering questions, lots of standing, lots of listening to folks unload their woes. I collect my pay in exchange and go on about my day until another morning ferries me onto the next calendar square. We count the hours, my coworker and I, and bargain with the clock to move quickly…we beg for 5 o clock. How bad our days must be to “wish our lives away” in some sort of ignorance, ignoring our aging bodies while climbing up the trellis of mortality. Yes, the days are long, but the years are getting shorter.

    If I live to be 70, I’ll get another 30 summers.

    Another 30 gardens

    30 pool seasons

    30 more years of perfectly ripe cantaloupes.

    This, of course, is the plan… but what if I only get 5 or 10 more summers, 1 or 2 more?

    If this be my last then let me swim, and sweat, and be wild. Let my skin turn golden brown, my arms and legs go limber in the heat, my hair turn light around my face. 30 more times I’d want to see mist coming up from the lake after a steamy midday thunderstorm makes way for the sun’s return. I’d want to watch the yellow finch perch atop my sunflowers and pluck with delight its seeds, the bumblebees bounce from one bright bloom to another.

    To turn the garden hose against myself and dry off in the afternoon sun, to pour salt on ripe watermelon and spit seeds across the yard. I’d stay drunk on “still-hot-from-the-sun-tomatoes” eating them like apples, one after another. I’d go swimming every, single, day.

    But oh, to think about having 30 more summers leaves me in a state of bliss today. 30 more winters may fade the barn wood of my bones but 30 more springs would trickle a rosy pink back into my cheeks, just as the frozen creeks thaw. 30 more times I could watch the leaves turn from luscious green to bronze, fall onto the dark reflection of the water’s surface and glide away down the river.

    Maybe I am in this time reflection because of a sad conversation I had this week with a patient. A young, 74 years old fellow who had a biopsy on a lung spot came to me with the report. “It’s cancer, and not the kind that’s curable.” He went on to explain that the treatment would be a kind of cruel torture that didn’t interest him, and so he has been acquainted with the hospice program. These are low moments at work, words come slow and sometimes the truth just has to have its own silence in order to exist. He smiled, said thanks, and then him and his wife went on about their day. This must be his last summer, I thought to myself.

    Because I’m thinking of Michael this weekend, I will not let these short years go by without some reverence. I will not let my Monday morning cancel joy this week, and I will not sit back and let another summer fade casually by.

    For a Monday

    Monday mornings start with the wicked alarm
    Threatening you out of bed, filled with dread
    But falsely.
    Because, the world is sweet on Mondays
    Full of beginner’s charm
    My dear you must disarm
    And sip hot coffee against the cool dawn
    Like fresh steps of a summer fawn
    Go out into the day, and find a way
    To love the world.

    -Sarah Justice 2026

    Thank you for reading, and reach out because I DO love to chat!

    justicesarah67@yahoo.com

  • Only, for the sake of Beauty

    On gardening

    I learned something, some sort of secret whispered into my ears from the sweet pea vines. As I lay in the grass, comfortably, gazing up at them I realized that I might get only a pint (probably less) of peas from this massive row of intertwined vines I had growing before me. “why then, am I really doing this” I contemplated for only a second before I heard them say back to me… you created beauty. I’ve always felt clever and frugal as a gardener, someone with enough knowledge to stick it to the man, a way around buying bell peppers for 5 dollars a piece at the grocery store. Seeds have always enchanted me, but mainly gardening feels like a duty, a wise practice, clever. I realized after spotting the first few pods, that I could probably buy a 1/2 pound bag of frozen peas for a few dollars, and that would be clever compared to tying the homemade trellis I’d made with 78 tiny knots. But then what would I have to gaze upon in the quiet moments of my life, what could I explore the growth and change of, everyday. A plastic bag of frozen peas is good to eat, but my garden isn’t just for eating, it is an expression of my unexplainable adoration of sheer and perfect beauty. Words are inferior compared to the sight of a tender, living element of the whole that we all belong to. Only a careful and soft inspection of the garden with the eyes can cleanse the tired spirit that endures the fluorescent lights of the day. I am an artist of garden beds, of thriving colors, shapes, and textures. I can travel to art museums, and beaches; I can drive through the mountains and pull off the side of the road at over look stops. I can watch the sunset over the river, and I can read poems; no other beauty however, is more close to being my own, an extension of the way I see the world more so than my own masterpiece of vegetable plants and wildflowers. They are their own star, especially when the sun pours through their hues in the evenings. I cannot take any more credit than appreciating enough to set them into motion, and to care for them. It gives me pause to consider that we eat food without ever enjoying the sights of blooms, or the smells of the vines; that we can visit the grocery store, and stand amongst piles of produce but never saw the orchards. I spend hours studying my peach tree, well before the first July bite of the cobbler.

    This is all a consideration of creating in lieu of consuming. We soak up so much information in a day, we take in the news and fill up online shopping carts. We suck dry the reels, the shorts, 5 seconds, 10 seconds at a time; and we garden to make something else, something real. It’s an experience to be apart of with your hands. June is the perfect month to stare at the peas, their blooms, and to watch the translucent pods fill up slowly with little sweet bites of what you brought into existence. No pixels, nothing digital, just pastel hues and a million shades of green.

    As always please write to me, as I do love to chat!

    And please don’t forget to notice beauty, anywhere you may find it.

    justicesarah67@yahoo.com