Category Archives: Gardening

a gardener in her garden

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a gardener in her garden

In the summer
I planted an abundance of things
Following the seeds I had planted
Before, in the spring

It was too late for most of the flowers to grow
They told me ‘we are seeds
Too late to be sown’

But I laughed and I did it anyway.

As a child, I never learned how to walk;
I ran.

I never learned how to crawl, or to grieve;
I ran.

I never learned patience, or poise, or popularity;
I ran.

So here I am:
A woman now.
My running shoes worn down through the tread,
And I’m making time to see, embrace, accept;
Reaching out with empty hands to share the stories of my journeys
With the ones I always held so dear;

Only now, they’re all too busy running.

Winter is knocking,
On a door I didn’t see.

My spring has all but left me
Taking with it all its seeds

Blooming flowers and trees
Babies, and their leaves
Fall peacefully on the ground of my longing.

But the summer left behind a huge harvest of impossibilities:
Flowers, massive and so massively
Blooming.
Blossomed.

It’s fifty-eight degrees
and I am picking
Fields of flowers
That once promised not to bloom.

But who am I to give them to?

And so
I keep on running.

All that we see or seem…

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All that we see or seem…

“When I grow up, I want to be an astronaut, but I want to land on a star.”

“…Honey, stars are big balls of burning gas. They aren’t solid.”

“I know, Grammy. But that doesn’t mean it’s not possible, it only means we can’t imagine it yet. And I also want to be an Archeologist in Egypt. And a Marine Biologist. And I want to find out what words look like to people before they know how to read.”

She just looked at me and smiled her usual ear-to-ear smile, and hugged me with her usual five minute hug. She loved me half as much as I loved her. And she loved me a lot.

I think back to the quieter moments from my childhood, the ones where sunlight had a certain melodious way of sending a sense of sweet sorrow into my soul as it began to set outside my Grammy’s living room window; the ones where the ticking of the massive grandfather clock set my mind in motion with a certain angst and longing for the inevitable passing of time to somehow skip over me & my Grammy’s summer days so they could last forever… Even then, I somehow knew the pain of loss before I’d ever had to meet it face to face.

My Grammy always cried as she waved goodbye, the tail-lights from my dad’s pickup truck casting an ominous glow against the fading palm of my Grammy’s loving hand. I understood at a youngest age why she cried. Every single week. Every single time I had to go. I knew the day would come when saying goodbye would only be a distant memory.

It’s funny how the memories can be so incredibly specific that way. I remember her smell so well that it floods over me — even fifteen years later — when I simply close my eyes.

I dream about her tomatoes. Picking them. Her, and me, and all of my boys out there with us. These dreams are not a slumbering escape from the reality of her being gone; they are an awakening reality of the slumbering life I lead without her in it. These dreams are more real than the long-ago memories we once created; they are the memories we’re creating now.

I can’t say I believe in ghosts, or that I know somehow that it’s not just my imagination coming alive when I dream. But I can say — without reason or justification — that my Grammy does, in fact, visit me. We have moments together now, after all these years, when we truly do pause time. We put the world on hold and we sit back, holding hands, sharing love like a cup of fresh lemonade. Making jokes about bitter old men. Laughing. Talking about all of the things I worried I’d never have the chance to discuss with her: motherhood, marriage, growing up… That sort of thing.

In many ways, I became an astronaut and an archeologist and a marine biologist and I most certainly have discovered what words look like to people before they learn how to read… Although I don’t travel to Egypt or make day-trips beyond the Milky Way or spend long weekends deep sea diving; still, I’ve found the most unique opportunities to develop these fascinations into a deeply useful, deeply gratifying use for my meager existence.

Motherhood has a way of doing that.

I miss my Grammy much like we all miss aspects of our childhood, I’m sure. But mostly I’m just immensely grateful to have been given the opportunity to know and love and be loved by such a magical human being. I hope you each have such a profound connection, such an indescribable blessing at some point in your journeys. Whether in Egypt or on the moon, or in your very living room.

Lying in Wait

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Lying in Wait

The beauty of a flower is admired by its bold colors, and its delicacy.

But something God showed me is the beauty that no one thinks much about; as the sun has set and the colors and delicacy are no longer visible, the beauty of the flower lies in its striking poise, its silent confidence as it reaches itself higher towards the sky above as if longing for the suns’s touch. The flower sits contrasted against a big blue everything, and in the stillness of the night it grows into its own perfect unseen beauty. The flower’s roots reach deeper down into the sleeping earth as the night slips over it like a gentle sorrow. It learns a new peace. And if we look closely enough, we discover a concrete beauty that can’t be seen in the delicacy of daylight. We see a force of life that rests wakefully in waiting for the world to arise from its slumber.

Sitting patiently in the unknowing is actually what true strength looks like. The colorful beauty follows from the quiet strength.

A Moment in Time

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A Moment in Time

    I have developed this deep passion for gardening. And not like some little hobby or side job, no, we’re talking a borderline fixation. An obsession, truthfully. Or maybe it’s a compulsion. Compulsively, I am obsessed with planting seeds. And harvesting trees. And cultivating plants. And it is seriously the coolest thing in this universe. (Besides being a mom of five insane boys, but you get my point.) I love love love my plants.

    I had a pretty deep talk with my stepson awhile back about the necessity of certain curricula in education. Specifically, why biology matters. He’s so much like me it’s crazy… Math is for geniuses, history is for boring people, music is for everyone and reading is for real. But I was expressing to him that in college I was blessed with the coolest, nuttiest Biology professor, who brought the subject to life for me and helped me discover endless possibilities in the basics of the subject. Energy, for example. The fact that we are (on a cellular level) composed of the exact same material as stars in distant galaxies. Or matter; the same processes that make life on earth possible (gravity, relativity, etc) are the same processes that maintain order in our universe. We are all a bunch of atoms, molecules, tiny particles of elements that come together and form mass, and that’s exactly how God created it to be. The microscopic level of life is a reflection of the macroscopic. The details might seem boring at first, but when you start to discover the magic of life and how intricately woven the structure of life is within every part of our existence–and how unbelieveably complicated it is–it becomes clear that we have NO IDEA how great, how infinite, how indescribably complex our God is.

    In attempt to give him a hands-on idea of what I meant, and why biology matters, and what makes it fun, I invited him to join me in the adventures of planting stuff. He loved it. His zinnias are beautiful. :))) (A super cool mom moment for me.) We planted a baby tree. A couple of weeks later, he totally lost interest. His excitement in learning about the PROCESSES of seed growth and plant development flew out the window the second he stopped getting immediate gratification. Once the seed sprouted, the magic was over for him.

    What struck me is how we are all like that. We discover something new, it sucks us in because it is novel and different and exciting… And then it becomes familiar and our enthusiasm fades. We see the changes as they happen, and when it happens slowly we forget it is changing at all.

    The Holy Spirit showed me something today. As I walked out to get the mail, I couldn’t believe how much our maple tree has grown. It was only about ten inches tall when we planted it. It’s now sitting at about four feet. It’s gorgeous. It’s healthy. And I felt so proud… But I started thinking about the biology of it, and how people and plants have so much in common. The faster a tree grows, the weaker it is in structure, because the roots take time to develop and gain depth. The more slowly something grows, the better established it becomes and the higher its chances of survival.

    The lessons we learn in life, and the time it takes us to learn them–to grow from them–is much the same. The longer we meditate on the purpose of a painful experience, the more purpose we are able to absorb from it. When you plow through the tough times as quickly as you can without stopping to look around and evaluate how you got there and why, you end up wasting a large part of your life retracing the same terrain; over and over and over. You have to pay attention in life, take your time, and give your best effort.

    I told him once that the most important thing I’ve learned in my life is to always give 100% of yourself to everything you do. Whether it is your Biology homework, playing with your baby brothers, helping with chores or learning how to play guitar… Whether it is exciting or not, interesting or not; just give all of yourself. The moral of each story always comes at the end. And if we spend our precious time worrying only about what we have to learn from it, and never really investing ourselves to the task itself, we discover the hard way that we end up never learning the lesson at all.

    The tree we planted is actually a slow growing tree, compared to other species. But it has grown significantly. And what’s really cool is that once we stopped staring at the freaking thing, and watching our clocks saying “Has it grown yet? Has it grown yet?” …It actually, finally, grew.

    We spend so much of our life asking these sorts of questions; “Are we there yet? Are we done yet? Is it here yet? Is it time now?,” that we suddenly look back and realize time flew by, we can’t get it back, and we never stopped to experience the PRESENT. People have regrets in life because they never learn how to just be. It’s always hindsight or foresight, what could’ve been or what should be, what we’ve been through or what we hope for… God is telling us to see the right here, right now. Because the growth that lasts is the growth that takes its time, absorbs all that it can, and uses 100% of its energy; consistently, patiently, completely.

    Driftwood you find in rivers and lakes is typically dogwood, or cottonwood, or birch. These types of trees lack the aged maturity to withstand inclimate weather. The storm hits, and the trees that grew too quickly are uprooted or destroyed in the blink of an eye. The slow growing things last the longest. It’s human nature to want to grow quickly. And there’s a time and place for that. But more often, the growth that ensures our endurance, and our perseverance, is the growth that takes time.