This morning I wandered through the garden with a mug of coffee. They say if you drink hot beverages on a hot day, it will cool you down. I'm not sure that’s entirely true, but even if it is, I’m not going to try it with the plants; at the end of the day when I wield the hose, I make an effort to spray the heated water away from the desirables, particularly the young ones. Just one of those details to consider. Along with the idea that every once in awhile the rain barrels must be drained and refreshed with new rain. But the fact that I can consider the details now supports my sense of having found some sweet spot (as previously mentioned)--that I can take the time to address plants as individuals and deal respectfully with each. To my shame I can not remember the names of many, and I want to rectify that. The problem is the level of overwhelm. When the weeds are all I see, and images of Japanese beetles invade my dreams, my life seems to proceed like a steam roller--the view only of the general landscape with an inability to see what is crushed beneath. Sometimes I am what is crushed beneath. Decisions are made without sufficient deliberation, care is not taken for the smallest detail. Hurry is an enemy. Brother Lawrence says, "We must do all things thoughtfully and soberly, without impetuosity or precipitancy, which denotes a mind undisciplined. We must go about our labors quietly, calmly, and lovingly, entreating Him to prosper the works of our hands; by thus keeping heart and mind fixed on God, we shall bruise the head of the evil one, and beat down his weapons to the ground." Mindfulness, anyone? Truly there is nothing new under the sun. But the difference is on what(or rather, on whom) we keep our mind fixed. The details can be either that which overwhelms us, or the place of focus and care. The art is in being able to make the choice.
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The view out the kitchen window reveals that the garden seems to have blown itself up...like a self inflating balloon...like Violet Beauregarde in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. And this, seemingly over night. Everything is fat and green with spots of flowers of pink, white, red-orange, yellow, etc. I am at that sweet spot of garden life, where I can tread the paths and think in peace "This needs a little weeding...this needs a little pruning...time to pull these out...time to put something different in here," as opposed to "Aaaaaaaaargh!! I'm buried in weeds!" The Japanese beetles have dwindled (I did kill a BUNCH,) and seeds planted seem to be responding to the warmth and water. Don't think I haven't thought how this can apply to the rest of life(you weren't thinking that, were you?). I'm struggling emotionally right now, and I can't understand why, when all seems to be going well. I should be in the sweet spot of life, when things just need small adjustments--the major tasks are behind me and I've walked a road with sufficient obstacles and traumas. And of course, as in the garden, so in life, the weeds are waiting, waiting, to sprout forth and overwhelm me again. So why so downcast, oh my soul? I only have one theory, and it could be so so wrong. But maybe the little adjustments are the hardest. Maybe having the time to consider the details also brings the time to review and condemn, to examine the failures and have time for disappointment. I like to think this is only because we strive for perfection--a garden without weeds, bursting forth with aesthetic and nutritional value, so that the necessary adjustments now seem like an affront to our efforts. It also underscores the longing we all have, to live in the beauty, to be enfolded in the glory of the Creator's arms. We stretch out on our tippy-toes to attain to it here--our hearts and our souls cry out to live in that place--but we are still being formed for it: a long, often arduous process. So we can only look forward, and be grateful for the productivity of the garden as it is, and for the promise of future weeds with which to contend. Today, being Tuesday, is dump-the-rain-gauge day. The intent is to insure that every week there is at least one inch of rain on the garden. I expected at least that much as I went to the gauge, but the float had not moved, even a fraction of an inch. That was particularly surprising because yesterday it rained. It dumped big full buckets of rain for at least fifteen minutes, then paused, caught its breath and dumped some more. It was astounding, dramatic, and enticing. Only, I was viewing it all out a window some 14 miles away from home where I was attending a meeting and I could only stay seated and glance toward the deluge and try to keep my mouth from flopping open and embarrassing myself. Imagine my surprise, then, when today I shake the rain gauge upside-down and find naught but an old drip or two. I had given thanks yesterday that the rain came to water the garden. Today I irrigated. Is it proper to rescind a prayer of thanksgiving? (Well, she thinks, fists tight and planted on her hips, thanks! Thanks a lot. Seems rude. Is rude). And now I think perhaps assuming my garden was being watered at the same time was a tad presumptuous. It made me think, "for it rains on the righteous and the unrighteous alike", though I'm not sure in context which would be righteous and which not--my garden or me. But, since it is a very bad paraphrase, I had to look up what the red-letters actually say: "For He makes His sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust." And this is nestled in the section of the book of Matthew referring to how we treat one another. I always thought the verse was about how God blesses and provides for all, no matter how churlish or depraved, but had not thought about how we are called to do the same thing. If He is our model and guide, and we are to be as He is ("Be ye holy, as I am holy."), then we must also send rain on the just and the unjust, and shine on the evil and on the good. "As though he did not regard human character at all, God bids his sun shine on good and bad. As though he did not know that any men were vile, he bids the shower descend on the just and unjust..." Charles Spurgeon As though He did not know!! He does know, and we do know. But our behavior towards others is to be such that we seem not to know. And no matter what, we keep on shining, we keep on raining... 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.
I thought we had snuck by this year; that the yummy plants that attract the Japanese beetles would be spared. Then I saw them, a pair here, a pair there. Not the orgy of colorful shiny creatures I saw the first time they came. And I mean orgy. It seemed every one of them was pair up and stacked up. This year, I thought with relief, there were fewer, and concentrated only on one of their favorite plants. But I was wrong. When I first saw this beetle, I was amazed at the beauty of it--the iridescent metallic colors and the graceful shape. So stunning, reflecting the light into my eyes in shades of turquoise, gold, and rust. And the numbers were amazing. But they are hungry little buggers. And every time I thought they were done and gone I would find another handful, chomping away on my flowering quinces and the cherry tree. This morning, I found evidence of their activity on the peach tree. I have also come to learn that they are producing damage to the lawn area, as their larvae overwinter underground, then chomp on the roots of the grass. And here we were blaming the exuberant dogs that would run and skid, kicking up divots in the meadow. But the large bald spots could not have developed from a divot here and there. I declare the canines innocent and j'acuse the Japanese beetle. It's time for war! These critters can no longer get by in my garden merely by their good looks! No garden is an island. Most days I walk the neighborhood before my work day, and Dog and I sniff out the changes--visitors, neighbors, and the general state of the environs. Sometimes I have already heard the equipment, heavy or otherwise, altering the landscape, natural or man-made. We are nestled in the woods, all of us here in this neighborhood. It is a forest in transition, having once been farmland, it is now moving from "junk" species to hardwood, and the species in the stories--ground, mid, and upper--actually illustrate the transition, with the tall loblolly pines having been the first to break ground in the farmland. One day they will be no more, and the hardwood will reign supreme. However, according to our local forester, we will not be around to see the day, and there is nothing we can do to speed it up. But I would think there are ways to slow it down, and Dog and I encountered one this spring in several places. The earthmovers had come in, leaving behind a large gash in the earth, overturned greenery, and deep tread marks. It's a disturbance in the forest. Contrary to common assumption and concern, I am one that is ok with that. We the people are a part of the environment, and while we are tasked with being stewards of the land and all that is provided us, we cannot help but have an impact. The only question is where the line between a positive and a negative impact might be. So my response to the disturbance in the forest is more one of curiosity--with these changes what will I witness as time goes on? What transitions will the land go through that I can observe over the next months and years? Will loblollies recolonize? Or can the area go straight to hardwood, passing only through those herbaceous pioneers that we often categorize as weeds. One of the best and hardest things in life is witnessing and taking in change. We can resist, accept or embrace it. Sometimes we just curiously watch it happen. No photo today. I feel a bit wimpy about this topic, but I find I don't know what to think about it. Advice led me to purchase some bird netting to protect my blueberry bushes, as they are coming into fruit. When we came back from a five day trip, I had caught a black snake.
It wasn't just caught. It was wrapped and snagged and twisted. And dead. It must have struggled so valiantly and then, adding insult to injury, something came along and ate off its head. I apologized multiple times as I clipped it out of the deadly trap, losing half my netting and unable to unwind any from the snake's body, my imagination showing me the snake's last moments, the agony and confusion. I know I am anthropomorphizing, but I have to judge this occurrence as dreadful. Sometimes a snake in the garden is innocent. But the garden no longer is. The netting brought death within its borders and tainted my fantasy imagery of the space. Of course, this blog IS about "A relationship with the beautiful, the tough, the frustrating, the fruitful and the barren, dusty places..." Right? I will have to file this under "tough." Tough for me. Toughest for the snake. I have removed all the netting. For some reason most of the blueberries are gone now anyway. Some sort of cosmic recompense, I suppose. 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. The bane of my garden life are the uninvited plants, of course. I have been hand plucking for what feels like decades--centuries!--and nothing seems to improve the situation. I have carefully dug each and every plant out, "chopped" with a weeding tool recommended by Southern Exposure Seed Exchange and guerrilla weeded, pulling at random in fly by manner, I have done everything short of poisoning or burning. There are three things I carry with me from my youth that I know I will never do exactly right, because these are the three things I never got right under the tutelage of my parents. These are: Washing the car (You are leaving streaks!!) Ironing (Can't you do anything right?!), and Weeding I hear my father's voice when I weed: "Get out all the root!!" He could be thoroughly ashamed to see me now, pulling and tearing and randomly plucking. But he couldn't know what I would be up against. We lived in a drier clime, not this jungle where things spring up overnight. Here, everything gets watered frequently from the sky and where there's water there's life--great green batches of it whether you want it or not. To get out every root could be my full time job, my calling, my life. Do I want that? No.... So I invested in a weeding tool from one of the myriad garden catalogs I receive (they've found me!--they've all found me!!) It feels like treachery, betrayal, even blasphemy to use it, since I'm not abiding by the family dictum to get out every last bit of root. But I love it. I weeded the beds this week in 1/3 the time. The veggie plants are happy, I'm happy--what's not to like? I have turned my back on family dictum in the garden. Now if only I could stop ironing wrinkles into my clothes... There is a bird outside my window in the mornings this spring that sounds like the screaming strings in the movie Psycho. It's the exact same pitch. Exact same cadence. Graciously, the bird vocalizes more intermittently than the strings in the movie sound track. And he usually stops before I get up to take my shower. That is a great mercy. At other times, other seasons, there has been a bird that would cry out "Pretty, pretty, pretty," repeatedly. I chose to take this personally and accept the bird's estimation of me. What better way to wake up in the morning than to have someone insist that you are pretty, pretty, pretty, even with mussy hair and pillow-case creases along your cheeks. No matter what they screech or sing at me, I am honored to welcome them into my garden, and I am blessed to provide what I can for them. The Garden Birds seem to expect their due, picking through seeds in the bird feeder like a shopper at a Black Friday sale, swinging hard on the suet holder until it crashes down and they can all pick at the crumbs on the bench, even swinging at our bedroom window to give it a good sharp knock when the feeder is empty. Yet they flee when I approach. Deep down I feel they must know I'm their provider, or at least deeply involved in their provision. They must see me working--no toiling--in the garden to create a green haven with abundant perches, a variety of snacks, and a fresh source of water. Nonetheless, they still don't trust me, and I fear my dream of living like Cinderella in a Disney film, with birds, squirrels, bunnies, et al garlanding me and singing harmony to my morning praises will never come to pass. I have a choice to clench my hands on my hips and tap my foot and accuse these little ones of ingratitude, or I can keep giving, and take joy in their enjoyment. I choose the latter. I still tsk at their selfishness, as they chase each other off the feeders or out of the water, but laugh, too, at these displays of very human-like characteristics. I love that they can be themselves in my presence and just make themselves at home, and reflect the nature of life in the world. But I still choose which bird I listen to in the morning, not taking seriously the one that screeches and momentarily puts me off my shower, but listening rather to the one that calls me pretty, and insists it is so. It sets a better tone for the day... |