Thyme, thyme, thyme… see what’s become of me…
At the edge of the ocean, or at the edge of the land, an art museum sits looking out over a bluff. A garden is situated between the art and the sea, a placement that feels heartwarmingly apt: the garden as a bridge between art and nature. There is a bench for sitting while watching the ocean, but I’m more interested in what’s underneath it all. A patch of creeping thyme is beginning to cover a round rock. The little fuzzy thyme leaves and tiny pink flowers soften the rock’s edges, blurring the border between stone and soil.
This bit of creeping thyme reminds of the power and sway that flowers and beauty can hold over such stalwart things as rock and stone. They defeat by being pretty, gently surrounding a cold gray stone with fuzzy arms of warmth and loveliness. They embrace the immobile and unmoving rock with their love – given without expectation or the hope of love returned. The creep of thyme made beautiful, as in this creep of a song.
I don’t care if it hurts
I want to have control
I want a perfect body
I want a perfect soul
I want you to notice
When I’m not around
You’re so fucking special
I wish I was special
Thyme will spend the summer covering this rock, closing around its still stony heart. It offers softness and kindness – shade when it’s sunny and warmth when it’s windy. It is blanket and brother, caretaker and comforter, embrace and enchantress. It only cares to cocoon and love – its adoration feeds upon its own juxtaposition of hot and cold, hard and soft, interest and indifference.
