Spring in the Garden

I’m a gardener. My mother was a gardener.  Her mother was a gardener. Her father was a professional groundskeeper, in other words, a gardener. I guess the gene didn’t kick in for me until sometime in adulthood. I don’t really remember being that interested in it when I was growing up. I was mostly just mystified by my mother’s obsession with planting and arranging and the sprigs of fresh flowers that always had to be on our dinner table.

But now that is me. I certainly am interested in the end product - the beautiful space, the plants heavy with flowers and morning dew. But there is something in the wonder of it, the miracle of it that keeps me captivated. That I can plunge a mass of tangled black roots into the dark depths of what is sometimes not-so-tilled garden dirt, and somehow it knows exactly what it wants to be when it grows up.

Two masses of tangled roots that look so much the same will grow to be such entirely different things. The massive energy that goes into producing the perfect bloom. Perfect if even only for a moment before the petals bruise and begin to fall. The wonder of the diversity of it all and the brevity of it all. Such a gift, to us, and the bees, and the hummingbirds.

So, it is spring. And I am up to my elbows in dirt. 500 pounds of new fresh dirt dragged to the back yard so far (did I mention this is my gym, also?). A dozen empty flower pots from new plants now surrounding the new place to sit in the yard, a place to sit and be still a bit after all of the hard work (did I mention it is my meditation, also? Perhaps the person who turned the phrase “being grounded” was a gardener?).

No wonder God said that he gave us this earth, this garden, to till and care for – and that in turn, it would care for us.

Thank you, God, for the gardens we till and the beautiful fruits of our labors. For the things we bring to life in this world through you. Amen

“The Lord God took the man and put him in the Garden of Eden to work it and take care of it.”

Genesis 2:15