It is spring and the gardens are edged. Eight years of tending them, jubilantly gouging new beds out of unwanted lawn, planting native drought-resistance giving forth in time, from buds to bushes. 

I only met Chat GPT online about six months ago, 

and I have come to rely on it.

A speedy intellectual companion, 

when in a mode of writing 

academic submissions under deadlines. 

A walk around the property to admire the spring garden. The anemones and irises are flowering. Small slow pleasures. Deeply dirty fingernails. Stretched hamstrings. 

I’ll pose a question, like: what does B 

(as in a philosopher or scholar)

say about consciousness and literature?

The property is large with over a dozen flower beds. I remove winter debris. I bend and pull weeds for hours. Transplant huge hostas. Days of work and the garden soon shows itself. 

In response, ChatGPT’s dot pulses, 

like it’s breathing as it scours the internet.

Then it starts pouring organized content onto the 

screen, before my eyes. I scan as the text appears.

I’m partial to flaming red geraniums and over-winter them each fall. Some must be eight years old, sitting in the basement for the cold months, barely watered. And then coming upstairs for a little care before they re-enter the outside, their leaves burning as they acclimatize.  

The content is pretty good. 

ChatGPT accelerates the time it takes 

me to grasp the intersection of concepts. 

A new idea sparks. Other scholars I should check out. 

It’s legit. 

A forty-something asked me if I’m selling my home, would I let them know first? Anyone would covet it. Many do. 

I never use ChatGPT content in my submissions. 

Plagiarism is not legit. 

I’d never want my home—and my gardens—to go to the wrong person. I’d safeguard it from that. A friend mentioned in their will the name of a person they did not want their home to be acquired and inhabited by. Interesting.

Students may be tempted to do 

something like this: Write me a 2000-word paper on the

theme of home in contemporary Canadian fiction, 

particularly X, Y and Zed authors. 

And, in a minute, ChatGPT will do so.

If submitted, the student would flunk.  

I think of my open concept home like it’s my big tent. I’m a camper. The metaphor makes me feel internally aligned to my values. 

Sometimes ChatGPT offers to write an essay for me.

It’s annoying. I say: Stop offering to do that.

You know it’s not allowed.

It says: O yes, thanks for the reminder.

It’s not about the love I’ve made (well, maybe some), nor the parties I’ve thrown in it. Nor all the meals I’ve cooked. It’s more about the nights I’ve slept in my big tent. The mornings I’ve risen to. The early evenings I’ve caught the breeze fluffing the birch willow over the lake. The constant springtime birdsong. The slow changes to the gardens from last to this year.

 Sometimes it claims philosopher B 

said something they simply did not say.

I fact-check. 

…the arriving home after being out. The gardens looking perky after a rain. The soil damp and nurturing, the sun dappling the dame’s rocket peppering the hill with shades of pink for a few days, and then something else appearing. 

I respond with: B did not say that. 

Please correct the quote and provide the source.

ChatGPT is never offended,

nor does it deny it got something wrong. 

It just apologizes and carries on. 

…the way time slows down so I can hop on and ride with it. The promise of something in that.  

I don’t give it access to my content

(other than this blog). 

I try to safeguard it.

Just like my house.