After a week of putting up with various guises of Reality Filtration Systems, of getting increasingly 'less than pleasant news', of accumulating debt when for the last 7 years I have been debt free, I got myself ready early this morning and hopped onto the road. Unfortunately, I had not gotten up early enough and was swarmed by traffic created by well dressed people on their way to various places of worship and community. Out of these masses, perhaps a few were seeking something other than another Sunday tradition - I suspect the rest were acting out of a social compulsion rather than an individual seeking. I do not know.

What I do know is that the sun had awoken the dew when I got to the land that I am cultivating. This is the perfect time to spray the deadly cocktail of Roundup and Amine to clear out weeds and grass, to clear areas where I can sew. As I get out of the pickup, I realize that I forgot the mobile phone home. I smirk, and go about the business of planting 2 more mango trees. A young errant cow eyes me cautiously, used to humans, seated comfortably in my field where I intend to spray. Her mother is somewhere nearby tied up, but the 'pond owner' has not seen fit to tie this particular young cow.

I chase it hither with a stick. I chase it yon. It goes a safe distance away; I begin spraying the beds. In what seems to be moments, the young cow decides to investigate the area where I had just sprayed - generally speaking, a bad idea that a precocious young cow would have no idea about. I look for something to throw and see no stones but plenty of cow dung (!) and some sticks with potential. After three throws, the young brown cow gets the point and finds another place where it is safe to be a young precocious cow. I move on, continuing - first uphill, then downhill, then back uphill. Nothing else exists but the spray can, the weeds and grass, the sun, a slight breeze and the pungent scent of that which comes from the can. The can is empty.

I look up. I look around. Serenity. The birds chatter in the nearby guava trees; the wind rustles through tree branches and across the grass for miles. I mark my place, take a break, and look over on the next hill to see another farmer - more experienced and productive - also at work. He does not see me, I do not wave, we go about our affairs in our own meditations. I smile, sitting on the concrete block I brought under the guava tree just for this purpose. Enjoying the moment, I do not put a name to it for if I do I will lose it.

The water used for spraying is at end, a sign that it is time for me to stop so that I don't make myself ill. All that remains is the planting of one more tree, a tree that I must be serene to plant.

I find the spot. I plant the young peepal tree as planned, a foster sibling to the first one planted, and regret that I could do no more this morning.

Some people go to church, surrounded by others. All I get from that is noise. Give me a morning in the 'garden' over all of that any day. I'll take serenity over being a part of a group that is determined to be saved.

But then, each of us have a different path to walk.