GRATIA PLENA
(Full of Grace)
A ten-minute (or so)
play
By
Harry C.S. Wingfield
Email: harryw410@gmail.com
There is one character in this play. STEWART is an older gentleman, dressed in
gardening clothes. The play takes place
in STEWART’s hosta garden. The stage can
be bare of scenery and props, except a garden statue of St. Francis of Assisi
Note: Some lines are
intended to be sung. I have indicated
these in italics.
(Version 5, 10.27.2003)
STEWART enters, looking at the
stage floor intently, and singing to himself.
STEWART
(singing Schubert’s version of “Ave Maria” to himself) "Ave Maria, gratia plena, Maria….."
Shit! There’s a gazillion of them. Little weeds, little weeds.
STEWART
I know, I know, I should be using gloves for this, there
might be germs. But with these little
guys you really have to be able to feel them to get them out. And it’s best to get them out while they are
really little like this, before they can get roots in. That’s what the mulch is for. I spread it out between the hostas, and then
when all these seeds get started, they don’t get started in the hard dirt. Not if I get out here every day and pull them
out, they don’t. But I don’t mind. It gives me time with my babies. This one is a Frances Williams. I’ve had her for about 5 years now. "Maria, gratia plena, Maria, gratia plena,
Ave, Ave dominus…"
No, I didn’t name her after anybody. Frances Williams is the variety name. Like that golden one is a Sum and Substance,
and that green one is a Plantaginea, and that blue one is a Sieboldiana Elegans. David says they all look green to him, but
when I put a blue one next to a gold one, I can really tell the
difference. So many shades of green. Amazing.
“Bendicta tu in mulieribus,
Et benedictus, et benedictus fructus ventris,”
No, I don’t ever rake the leaves. They can be useful sometimes. And I like the idea of everything staying
back in the garden, recycling. I mean I
buy the shredded pine bark like everybody else, but I also let the dead leaves
and dead flowers and pulled up weeds do their thing, too. Lots of life in dead leaves, if you use them
right. At least that’s what St. Francis
of Assisi
I used to name my plants after people. Friends who had died, you know. But it got too tedious, too hard to remember
them all. The cherry trees are named
after Nancy and Adrian, though. Theirs
were the hardest. Adrian Adrian Nancy
You know I dreamed about her the night she died. She was coming out of this great big house,
like Biltmore, only bigger, and she walked out from this enormous crowd of
people and came up to me and said, “I’ve been waiting for you for so long! Let me show you around.” And I said to her,
“It’s such a big house! There are so many
people!”
And then I woke up
and I knew she was dead. I didn’t call Nancy Nancy
A TV reporter was interviewing me one time, and she asked me
“How do you get out of bed every morning knowing you have this horrible
disease?” And you know how sometimes
things pop out of your mouth before you realize what you are saying? She said “How do you get out of bed every
morning knowing you have this horrible disease?” and I said “I have to go to
the bathroom. And the cats have to be
fed.” It just popped right out. It was such a stupid answer. I should have said something profound like
“My faith in God sustains me.” But then
I thought about it later, and it was the truth.
I get out of bed because I have to go to the bathroom. And the cats need to be fed. And then there’s MY breakfast to fix, and
pills to take, and dishes to wash, and weeds to pull, and the day just
happens.
Right after I feed the cats sometimes I just stand there in
the kitchen window and look out at the hostas.
I designed this garden so that I could view it from that window. I was planning for the day when I would be in
a wheelchair, and not able to get up and about. I thought that was the way it
was going to go, you know? But here I
am, fourteen years later, still alive, still out in the garden, still pulling
weeds.
I love to sing. And
singing is how I pray. It uses your
whole body. You have to BE the
music. To me, that’s praying. And I read once that singing church music is
good for the immune system. So maybe
“Ave Maria” is making me live longer.
Funny, since it’s usually for funerals.
“Be with us sinners now, and at the hour of our death.”
I also pray when I’m digging in the yard. I can listen out here, you know? Just listen.
And be with my plants, and my trees.
Nancy, and Adrian. But I don’t
name the other ones any more.
Sometimes I name the weeds, though. Name them after people who have really pissed
me off. Then I rip them out by the
roots, concentrate, put my whole body into it, and add them to the mulch. And I yell their names out when I’m
yanking. “Take that, Ronald
Reagan!” “Take that, Pat
Robertson!” Into the mulch. Don’t mess with me, don’t mess with my
hostas.
I don’t remember which tree is Nancy
and which one is Adrian
One time I was at a retreat, and they had one of these
labyrinth things, that you walk through as you pray and meditate. And they said to ask the labyrinth a question
as you started in, and then listen for the answer as you walked. I couldn’t
think of anything to ask. So I just said
to the labyrinth, tell me what to ask, OK?
And as I started walking I found myself asking all my dead friends to
pray for me, sort of like the Catholics ask Mary and the saints to pray for
them. Skip and Mike, pray for me, Billy
and Roy
This guy from church came to see me in the hospital one time
when I was near death from Pneumocystis, tubes in my arms, tubes up my nose,
fever of 105, and wanted to pray the Rosary with me. I told him I don’t pray like that. I talk to God without the help of beads,
thank you very much. And he said “But
it’s important to pray the Rosary if you’re about to die.” But I had no
intention of dying, not then, not now. I
had too much to do. I had to go to the
bathroom, and feed the cats, and take my pills, and weed my garden. I’ll pray how I want to pray. People ask me sometimes if I have a personal
relationship with Jesus, and I tell them if I do, then it’s PERSONAL, isn’t
it? Usually shuts them up. I know you mean well, but stop growing in my
garden. Into the mulch. Don’t mess with me, don’t mess with my karma,
don’t mess with my garden. If I get sick,
I get sick, but I’m healthy today and I’m going to act like I’m healthy. And I don’t plan on dying today.
Maybe I’m already dead.
If I am, I guess I came to a pretty good place. So peaceful, so many shades of green, so
graceful. Hostas are so full of
grace! Not like “Hail Mary, full of
grace.” That’s talking about the grace
of God. But graceful like ballet
dancers. So tough, so strong. They come back every year, you know? Just have to keep them mulched and
weeded. Yeah, it’s pretty good here,
except for all the weeds. Almost heaven,
Alabama
When I’m dead they can just take my ashes and scatter them
here in the mulch. Feed the hostas. You can remember me here, in the garden. Pull some weeds while you’re here. Don’t add me to that damn quilt. I don’t want the people I leave behind to
have to grieve like that. I don’t want
them to hurt like I hurt. So many
panels. So much grief. Such a big house. So many people.
I have no idea why I’ve outlived them all. Sometimes I think they’re the lucky
ones. They didn’t have to go to all
those funerals, make the quilt panels.
They didn’t have to remember.
Don’t have to get out of bed, go to the bathroom, feed the cats, take
the pills, pull the weeds. One guy from support group, his mother
started calling me after he died. Just
to talk, stay in touch with his friends.
But the conversation would always end up with her saying “I can’t
understand why he had to die and you are still doing so well!” Jesus!
Doing so well? Does she have any
idea how crazy you can get when all your friends are dead and you’re so lonely
you’re naming your goddamn garden plants after them? I don’t know why I’m still alive, why they
died and didn’t come back, and why every time I that I nearly died, I didn’t die
after all, but came back to life again with all the damn scars and the pain and
the dead leaves and the crazy mothers.
And I have to go to the bathroom, and the cats have to be fed….
No, I’m not in denial.
I take too many damn pills every morning to be in denial. Right after I go to the bathroom and feed the
cats, I take all those pills. Every
morning, and till the hour of my death.
But sometimes I stop for a couple of minutes and just look out the
window at my hostas. So many shades of
green. So peaceful. Just like heaven. Heaven, right here on earth, right now. How do I get up every morning knowing I’ve
got this terrible disease, indeed!
Stupid TV reporter. Up by the
roots, and into the mulch.
I used to get into arguments with my Bible study group about
this all the time. They thought when
Jesus said, “The kingdom
of God kingdom of God
It’s all right here.
Heaven is right here. Right
now. I can make my own retreat
center. Make my own labyrinth. Right here, in my own back yard. Ask it any damn question I want to.
Why me? Hail Mary,
full of grace, gratia plena, WHY ME? Why
me? Why me?
My grandmother used to say the thing about life is that it’s
so daily. Maybe death is daily,
too. And it’s all about choices. The kingdom of God kingdom of God
STEWART
….and tending to all these hostas. Oh damn it to hell! I must have pulled up your roots with the
weeds! Don’t worry baby, my precious
Frances Williams, I’ll get you safe in the dirt again. I’ll take care of you. I’m here now. I’m here now.
STEWART
(singing to himself)
“Nunc et in hora mortis,In hora mortis nostrae,
In hora mortis, mortis, nostrae, In hora mortis nostrae
Ave Maria, gratia plena”
Lights fade to
black as he sings.
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