Today's Work

How can I stretch my mind, my heart, to find tenderness for all of our gifts and limitations?

"Do not apologize for the state of your garden," he chided gently, a man who had been a garden educator for years. "It's exactly how it's supposed to be."

To celebrate that, to hold it dear, I must extend a gentle heart to my work in its many forms as it contributes to both order and chaos: there was the time I chose to write rather than to mulch, the day I slept late to recover from a quarrel that lasted until three a.m. and I did not water, the day I spent at the coast instead of planting the onions.

Dandelions and curly dock I have made friends with. Nettle and bittercress sustain me as I wait for spring lettuce to unfurl before the sun. The crab grass still strikes dread in my heart and the morning glory, it's dark green leaves tender and small, are poking through the too-thin mulch as I turn away, unwilling to watch.

How may I set foot into the pathway of my garden welcoming the presence of every being, green and brown? How can I find it in my heart to offer amnesty to the myriad slugs and snails, flea beetles and aphids? (It is not actually mine to offer, I know. They allow me to grow here, too.)

My work is not the work of the lonely. Raccoons, a pestilence to my chickens, eat snails. The chickens will do serious seasonal damage to the crab grass if I give them half a chance.

I suppose it's about trust, knowing that the resources are here with me to find harmony, peace, and beauty in this bed I've made. When I turn my eyes to the earth and see only obstacles to my intentions, I may close them again and recall all the beings that I am connected to that together encompass a greater vision, and I am offered a view into that.

When I open them, voila! The morning glory blooms effortlessly into tiny flawless cups of sunshine, greenery raises its head in every spot I've not taken the time to cultivate, and my mother Earth reminds me that the world is always in movement, always unfolding whether I am capable of bearing witness or not.

The garden is possibility. It is a model of patience, waiting for me to find love.