The garden and I are coming up on an anniversary--it will be five years in November that we were introduced. Five years the following February when I committed to her (I toyed with letting her lie fallow, with naught but an occasional mowing. Then there was a shift in the universe...). And five years the following summer when she was established. Ok. So only the first one is an impending anniversary. But starting from scratch five years ago, in retrospect, has been a real lesson in "The Law of the Farm," as per Steven Covey.* I wanted a garden. I was ready to work--and I tore into it with gusto(starting with cardboard sheeting, and then seven yards of commercial compost and garden stuff from all over the property, layered, lasagna-like). But, as with any great (or small) undertaking, I was naïve as to the obstacles to be faced. I didn't know the abundant rain here would wash the woodchips off the walking paths, swirling them into new and irregular patterns. I didn't know pomegranate trees would be so unhappy here that they would commit arboreal suicide. And I certainly didn't know about the Japanese Beetles... And I didn't know that I was good at planting and weeding, but horrible at harvesting (weird, huh!), that I had never REALLY sweat in my life before moving here, and that the garden would grow life lessons as well as green things. So why do I bring this up now, when this first anniversary is still a couple of months away? It's because of a moment--a garden moment. I had a moment in the garden last week when I thought, "Huh. It looks like a garden." Up to this point, yes, others had told me how lovely it is, what a nice garden space, etc. But to me, it was not yet a garden. To me, with all its weeds and bugs and sometimes sickly plants and plans that never came out right, it was not there yet. Then finally I saw it--with all its weeds and bugs and sickly plants and plans that had not come out as planned and I realized, yes, it's a garden. As with a garden, so with so many other things, big and small. Life and plans, marriage, family, compost, a year, a day, a moment. So much time in my life has been spent comparing my expectations with my reality, and thinking it wasn't a life yet. But if I am the garden, I know the Gardener is still and always faithfully working to form and mature me, not according to my designs, but to His. And He does not get discouraged at the weeds or bugs or sickly plants. Or plans that have not come out as planned. He still wants to Kiss the Garden. No matter how frustrating she is... *author of Seven Habits of Highly Effective People
0 Comments
It only took a couple of weeks for the garden to go from glorious to tired. From beautiful to beaten. From wondrous to weedy.
It only took a couple of hours to pull out the plants that were visually offensive. Spent. Yellowing. The garden seemed to breath a sigh of relief and, having been cleaned up, now rests before the next plantings. And though there is more work ahead to tidy up the plot, I am not discouraged. I see the rhythms in the process--the times of development and advancement, and the times of retraction and regrouping. And as I work on this land longer, these cycles are less intimidating, as I trust that my effort and input will continue to bring the place increasingly closer to the goal of the vision I hold for it. Not that it will ever attain to that vision, pure and complete. Here. On this fallen planet. But my commitment to it and the joy I have in seeing it develop give me an ever-so-small glimpse into the commitment and promise my God made to me: "...He who began a good work in you will bring it to completion.." I don't always see the progress. Indeed, I tend to focus on the weeds. And, Lord knows, I am quite a weedy garden! But I have this promise... I have this promise... One of our motivations for creating something is to share it with someone. A musician learns to play in order to perform. A visual artist designs and works to have that work displayed. An actor rehearses in order to--well, of all these, the actor probably needs an audience the most! But the gardener? A gardener is certainly motivated to share the success and the overall aesthetic of the garden. Sometimes I stop and think, "Wow, somebody needs to see this." And at the same time, when the garden is in disarray, I am sufficiently embarrassed. But most of the time this garden is a secret place. It doesn't front a suburban street or an arterial road. It sports no walking paths for nobility, nor play structure for neighborhood children. It is a changing palette of edibles and ornamentals, dirt, compost, mulch and weeds, but for the most part, it is hidden from general view. And for the most part, I am ok with that. For, in truth, the invisible is no less valuable. It is a hard concept to hang on to, in our culture in particular, when fame and visibility are so highly valued that people destroy their lives and the lives of others for that proverbial 15 minutes. There is something in each of us that screams "See me! See me! See me!" Or, at least, "Look what I did." But in the secret garden we know our Creator sees, and we are reflecting back to Him the creative urge that is so much of His very being. The unseen are no less important and/or valued, as in those who accompanied Peter on his visit to Cornelius--those nameless, unnumbered ones who supported and encouraged both parties in such a momentous encounter. "...The next day (Peter) rose and went away with them, and some of the brothers from Joppa accompanied him...." Some. Brothers. An anonymous group mentioned in a small sliver of the story. How many more not mentioned? How many more dwell n the invisible place, nonetheless seen by Him of Whom it is most important to be seen? I mentioned last night to an acquaintance that my garden was full of weeds. He simply asked, "Why?" Why indeed. I muttered something about not having enough time to weed the past two weeks. After all, this is the "Summer of Big Projects," and I am ensconced in one of the biggest ever, involving paint, brushes, and a kitchen in great disarray. But it cut me to the quick. If I cared about this plot of land...if I enjoyed it and wanted to enjoy it more, it shouldn't be languishing under a blanket of invasive green creeping weeds. So I spent 4 1/2 hours weeding yesterday. I didn't intend to spend that long, particularly on the first day of what I assume will be a long commitment, but the garden responded. It cooed under my loving hands, and stretched up as if to shake off a long sleep, and smiled back at me... …like any relationship, once starved for time, attention and care, finally receiving what it needs, and responding with reciprocate joy. We often hear that our priorities are indicated by where we spend our time, no matter what our intentions or the words of our mouths. I hate that. It is cliché and not a little obnoxious. Our lives are lived under a barrage of interruptions and distractions. It is just a fact. But when someone questions why there are weeds in your garden, you need to seriously consider... And I did. And I heard the metaphor loud and clear. My primary relationship had gotten blurry with inattention. Once again I took for granted the fact that I can come at any moment into the presence of my Creator and tell Him anything, and hear Him tell me the Truth about myself and how He loves me because that Truth is that I am the apple of His eye. Or as Misty Edwards sings, "...here I am, Your favorite one." I am His favorite one.* Why would I not seek to be with Him every second of every moment of every blasted day? We are a stupid (slow) people. I will tend my Garden. You? * As are you.
We returned from a short time away to find the gardenia bushes in full bloom. These are the only blossoms I will cut to bring inside. The house is filled with their fragrance but, more dramatically, is the garden. I have mentioned that time away from the garden sets me way back in terms of keeping out the uninvited botanical guests. Most times I return to a sense of dismay, as I realize the work set before me. This time, the first morning back, I walked into the garden, weeding tool in hand, and stopped to deeply breathe in the indescribable pleasure of the scent of gardenia. And I stayed put and worked in the garden for so much longer than I intended. Accomplishing one task, I cast about for another. I did not want to leave, knowing that in a few days, and not much more, the gardenia blossoms would retreat, and I would not be working in the middle of the divine fragrance for another whole year. I'm sorry, but I have to spiritualize this. How much more joy, energy and perseverance can one have when we work within the fragrance. How much more delight, no matter how arduous the task, if we can simultaneously breathe in the beauty of our Creator God. I imagine the priests working at the temple, and the delicious aroma of roasting meat, the promise of sustenance creating a hunger in the midst of worship. And I imagine the priests in the holy place, breathing in the holy incense, nowhere else to be replicated, the uniqueness underscoring the terrible awesomeness of the place in which they stood. The presence of God, invisible, majestic, is like a fragrance which draws our attention Him-ward. In Him we live and move and have our being. How much more sweet and sustaining for us if we recognize His presence and breathe deeply of Him. How much lighter our yoke, and smoother our task, when we recognize God's presence and enjoy His Holy fragrance. Rough weeding is done and the plants are in. I am working my way back over all the ground to detail weed, and it occurred to me last night that, before this spring is over, I will have touched every square inch of this garden with my bare hands. I will have crawled along behind the Roses of Sharon, stretched under the peach and cherry trees, and bent low along the fence line to pluck the unwanted greenery stem by stem. I will have lifted the feathery stalks of the carrots, followed weedy stems to their base among the strawberry plants, and pinched or scraped the thousands of wort-like weeds off the ground under the persimmon tree.
It seems a form of consecration. I've always thought I wanted to have a relationship with land--to have a piece of turf that I knew well enough that I could recognize every inhabitant, including the ones that pass through seasonally. In order to do this, I have to know the soil, the worms, the insects, the plants, the birds. Intimate weeding has brought me closer to this place. And shown me the extent of involvement needed for the garden to flourish. Spurgeon said, "Let us always plow to the very end of the field, and serve our day and generation to the extreme limits of our sphere." Plowing to the end of the field involves both breadth and depth. The intimate knowledge and whole-hearted involvement in every square inch of our sphere is the best we can offer. We can do no more, but must determine to not do any less. A teacher recently challenged me as to where the concept of a "calling" is in the scriptures. "Make your calling...sure," is about salvation. "The gifts and the calling of God are without repentance," is specifically about the Jewish people. There are principles, yes, but the idea that we have one life-long calling or purpose is difficult to find. The sphere(of influence) Spurgeon references can change for us as we travel through the stages of life. The important thing is to commit to what is before you, and plow. And plow. Just as I see myself consecrating the garden with the touch of my hands, the field I'm in needs the same consecration...friends, family, fellowship, To the utter ends of the field. Yes I've been trying to make friends with the weeds, my unintended garden inhabitants. I want to say "visitors," but they seem to set up camp with every intention to stay. So I've been meditating on Weed-dom quite a bit, and do have to correct some previously-stated misconceptions.
The weeds don't belong in my garden. They are indeed more like the little foxes in the vineyard, than the gift of a place-holder I was hoping they could be. They do bring in more green-ness, but they are invaders and crowd out what I want to see in the garden, be it aesthetics or provision. Moreover, they speak to me of how my life gets out of hand when untended. How little thoughts and actions can creep in and establish themselves as habit, then grow and grow, until I am no longer the image of who I want to be. These thoughts need to be taken captive, and our actions need to obey the truth. Otherwise the garden gets overgrown and any fruit attempting to manifest withers, rots, or gets infested, and the life--the garden-- is unproductive. So I am watching the weeds. There are more now than I can keep at bay, but I can limit their impact by removing all that grow too big and threaten their surroundings. And one day, I know, the garden will be purged. Purified. Sanctified. It is April, and the forecast for the day included snow. I was disappointed when it didn't happen. But better still is the rain that is watering the seeds I've been tending for over two weeks. Poppies, Lupines, Violas and, of course, the grass seed...
…which seem to be just sitting there, encased in green paint, or whatever it is they use, mocking me as they rest on the surface of the earth. I am lowering my expectations again, and my vision of a green carpet in the meadow areas is dissipating. But so is my capacity to care. It is one more thing --quite a simple thing really--to give up to the God who created all things. Not that the weeds and the bare ground cannot agitate my soul each time I pass by, but I can capture those thoughts and focus on more important things, like how to get the garden dirt stains out of the knees of my one-and-only pair of jeans? Ah. Another mystery. The antidote to mystery is revelation. Revelation is God's territory. And, yes, I'm (sort-of) joking about the jeans, But I am willing to receive from Him any revelation available, knowing full well He is an excellent judge of my ability to handle it. So I don't mind starting with something small. Grass seeds, for instance. Or red-clay stains ground into my jeans by immersing myself in the garden. But of late the best revelation has been of a glimpse of the depth and intensity of His love and sacrifice, for me. For you. For the love of His created beings. Inexpressible. In a story related in Surprised by Joy by C.S. Lewis, the author, as a young boy, experiences that flash of joy and wonder upon viewing a miniature garden. In much of his writings, Lewis describes that intense longing that feeds the desire for something more. Inside each of us is a hunger for something we often can’t name. Some might call it love. It could be beauty. But it is the thing that in itself is evidence there is something more, as well as the thing that draws us to seek for it. But what of the miniature garden? What is it that speaks to us in pangs of longing in unexpected times? Most who write about Lewis attribute so many “stabs of joy” to the literature he loved, the poems of the pre-modernists. But I can only focus on the miniature garden—that illustrates that it’s often the small thing that calls to the deepest part of us. The image or reflection of something that will ultimately satisfy everything in us. The thing that will make us stop along the trail, take a deep breath, and say “This is everything I’ve ever wanted—everything I will ever need,” the moment passing too quickly. I take a moment to sit back on my heels, my hands covered in dirt, the moist sweet smell of North Carolina riding the slight movement of air that bounces a strand of hair above my cheek, and I know this hunger again. |