There are periods of time that become important to memory.  They are good or bad.  Either way, they are amongst those things that frame a mind.  These histories are like hedgerows, that lurk there in the unexpressed regions as though they were ghosts or sentinels, while we live in fields. 

    I use the analogy of a hedgerow because while a person can look at this or that particular plant, a hedgerow is more like a jumble kept in shape by the sheering of those devices necessary for orderliness.

    The perfect hedge is I think, beautiful to look at, but it is sterile.  A monoculture, and those who own them tend to be cruel in their convictions.  They will root out the objectionable, which in the perfect hedge means rooting out everything else.  

    A hedgerow, on the other hand is filled with subtleties that make convictions almost impossible.  This, in extreme cases, might make it difficult to reach the front door in the morning.  There is always the chance the stairs are absent.  

    Yet a well managed beech hedge is one of the great wonders of the world, and I allow this monoculture such stature because somewhere in the fragrance that is a living thing there has to be one uniformity that prevents the world from tumbling. 

    Granted some might reflect here upon something like a constitution, or a parade of soldiers, or something equally ill-defined like democracy, or god.      

Previous  Next