Doing what I call "walkabout" one morning in the garden, I saw the freshly weeded beds beginning to sprout again with sons and daughters of the weeds I had just removed. I had not had time to plant and mulch in the direction I wanted the bed to go. This process reminds me so much of what my Rabbi says about cleaning up and cleaning out, and how if you don't fill the space with the "right stuff," it refills with the "wrong stuff" even more so--Matthew 12:43. OK. So weeds don't actually pass through waterless places and find no place to rest and the analogy falters, but there is something to the need to crowd out the weeds to reduce their number--in our gardens and in our hearts. But that is not what this post is about. When I lifted my eyes I could see the garden as a whole, including its environs, glowing with the light of a soon-coming-Autumn sun, and I saw the hope of relief and refreshing and renewal for the coming year--the new year from the point in time of the blowing of the shofar. I reached to pluck out a weed and felt the oddness of appreciating it for the satisfaction it gave me in its removal. I love these weeds, I thought. They flatten themselves along the ground and spread from one source root, and yield to my tug in a most satisfying way. A new way of seeing for me. And I want to see in a new way: "Jesus saw the Kingdom in a mustard-seed, and the adoring woman in a harlot. He saw the solid rock in Simon, and the lover in the son of thunder. He saw in a child the citizen of heaven, in a bit of bread His broken body, in a cup of common wine His sacred blood...Never was a vision such as this, because never was there a nature such as this." (George H. Morrison) It makes me wonder what He sees in me. What He sees in us. Moreover, it makes me wonder: What of the Kingdom could I see if I asked Him to show me, if I allowed Him to give me a new way of seeing...
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Sometimes Creation imitates itself, and designs are repeated from form to form. Why else would there be so many instances of the Fibonacci sequence and the golden section? Why else would the human, the cat, the whale and the bat all have the same limb structure? Maybe the design was just a good idea, and bore repeating. Just sayin'. 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
It seems that some years of gardening a weed shows up that I've never seen before. Some, of course, are like old friends, familiar and persistent, and I relish the kinetics of accessing their roots and pulling them out. Others just show up, strangers in town, often pretending to be garden plants. Hmmmm. This years' winner of the Weed of the Year Award (WOTYA) goes to this fella: He's been around all season, persistent and ubiquitous, and though I don't know his name, I feel it's appropriate to give him the honor this year. I know I didn't plant him, so he's a weed. Maybe. I'm riddled with doubts because I found this doppelgänger in the flower bed under the bird feeder two days ago. This is an area planted with a scattering of flower seeds--anonymous seeds impossible to ID until the flowers bloom. I scrunched up my face and declared out loud, "That's not the same thing, is it?" Yes. No. Yes? Could it be? There are so many similarities, right down to the bug nibbles. The greenery is quite lovely in the flower garden. It would be so nice if it turned out to have decent flowers. But, if so, have I been pulling out as a weed all season long what might have been a great plant for my garden ? Or, if not, am I allowing this weed to flourish in the flower bed in mockery of its other inhabitants? So I wait. It's just one of those garden things, where you must wait for the truth to out. Like the wheat and the tares. In the meantime, to honor the stranger in my garden, that often presents itself as lovely greenery, I present the First Annual Weed of the Year Award. No monetary prize involved. One of the reasons I wanted to paint, or do something to play with colors, was my experience in the upper reaches of the Sierra Nevada Mountains where one can see that wildflowers have no compunction about growing in proximity to one another no matter how their colors clash. I once paused along a trail in Desolation Wilderness, aghast at the way the purple, orange, yellow and green were combined. How did they get away with that? And it looked good. Reaalllly good! In the flatlands, trying to array myself in colors found at Macy's or the Emporium, I would fuss and freak over how the greens differed too much, this color didn't work with that print unless that color was in this print somewhere, or this item went with nothing--absolutely nothing--on the dressing room floor or in the closet--yet I could be ever hopeful that someday....someday something would cuddle up next to it and create some zing. Hasn't happened yet.
Sometimes the garden just looks weary. Or maybe I am projecting my own feelings. But I can relate to this trio of Basil plants that has spent the season putting forth their best, and now lower their leaves and sigh. The intense sunshine, at first an experience to rejoice in and face with exultation, now saps their strength and yellows their countenance. Too much for too long, I suppose. It's coming on time to tidy up for Fall--to layer with compost then mulch til I drop. There are also Fall plants to start, wild bushes to tame. My own leaves are drooping just thinking about it. But I know, once I get out there, it will be a delight, and the effort so worth it. So many times we arrange the garden then disappear inside. Or we walk the paths and examine the plants, only to create a list of things to do. There is very little time or effort to pause and appreciate the beauty we've created, to recognize our pale imitation of the Creator in the work of our hands--the urge to create. To beautify.
I ran into this beautiful caterpillar in the garden yesterday. I was all excited thinking it might be a monarch, though I knew it was on the wrong greenery for such. However, when I expressed my excitement and invited my husband to come and admire the caterpillar, he turned up his nose, shook his head and said, "Get it outa there! I wouldn't trust any caterpillar!" Unfortunately this put me in remembrance of my initial enthusiasm over the beauty of the Japanese Beetles. What was then so awe-inspiring had quickly become the bane of my garden existence. Or of my garden's existence. So I plucked the branch harboring the caterpillar and placed it in my weed bucket. The caterpillar's life hung in the balance as I researched its pedigree and attitude. Does it decimate garden plants? Does it sting? Who is it, anyway!!?? After a time of research and consultation, we all agreed it is a Black Swallowtail caterpillar, which makes a whole heck-of-a-lot-of sense, considering I've seen so many Black Swallowtail butterflies around lately. Like, duh. But I wasn't so far off with my original ID: these caterpillars do like to mimic monarchs so that potential predators think they are poisonous and will leave them alone. They don't sting, but "sometimes they can eat a lot of carrot greens." So, thumbs up? Thumbs down? I have rescued him from the weed bucket and placed him back near the carrot tops. I can't believe he survived the ordeal. He can have all the carrot tops he wants; he earned them. And I can hardly wait until I see him again in his next life form. Turns out, beauty isn't always deceitful. 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? "Don't turn on the dryer when we are playing hide and seek," warned my young grandson. The image is astoundingly humorous--his small face grinning out at me as he tumbles about, if he could actually fit inside. Although, now that I think of it, he has fit inside some mighty small spaces, and I wouldn't put it past him to squeeze inside the dryer. His statement struck me as a simple wisdom. It involves the seeing ahead to the possible consequences of each action, not only to yourself, but to others. It involves awareness of possibilities not normally considered, and taking cautious measures to avoid an unpleasant surprise. I didn't realize it, but I have a short list of simple wisdom that applies to the garden. Don't let the dog poop therein. Don't grow prickly things. Don't let the bird feeder get so low on feed that a bird so focused on eating eats her way under the plastic side wall and gets trapped inside. These standards involve things that impact the future--of myself and/or others. In a negative way. (So I'm going to include Don't grow zucchini, because then, dear heart, you have to eat it!) Each one is a lesson in itself. I consider the simple wisdom from my Creator's heart, "Why would you die?" Good question. Why would we choose to turn from Him who is our life. "In Him we live and move and have our being." Why would I choose to include the dog poop, prickles and other consequences of omission and commission in the garden, in the laundry room, or anywhere else I might stubbornly or stupidly(ignorantly) choose the dangerous path. If you can see the consequences coming, why not take averting action? If you can't see them coming, why not? You aren't paying attention. Come. Let us reason together. Don't hide in the dryer in the first place. |