Back to the Garden
“We are stardust…we are golden…we are million year old carbon…
And we’ve got to get ourselves back to the garden”
- Joni Mitchell -
Previous to the present…..
The winter froze the garden again. I had not quite finished the restoration from last year’s multiple freezes and WHAM; a new Arctic blast hit my tropical colorful space…and stayed. I’m talkin’ snow and ice. Now this makes at least two winters in a row. As I have been told, “Freezing temperatures are only news in Houston.” As well they are – we are not conditioned down here to scrape ice off of our windshields, keep the heat on all day, and burn a full cord of wood in the fire place in less than two months time. Many a Christmas we turn the AC down really low, (…’won’t be doing that again!), and put a log on the fire. Not anymore. Thirty degrees and dropping: It’s a drastic change.
The worst part of all of it as that I forgot to feed the birds. Bad girl. Bad. Bad. Bad. And as I sit here – outside surrounded by the rusted mush of plants, (by the way – did you know that arugula is an evergreen? That stuff has GOT to be healthy!)…so, as I sit here in the temporarily warmed weather in the middle of February, I am grieved that my birds are not everywhere, competing with the squirrels for seed and food. I headed out twice this weekend after clearing off some of the dead leaves, (there are a LOT of dead leaves), with the specific intention to buy bird seed. I did the usual: I came home with all sorts of items and had forgotten the seed. A bird, (probably a scout), appeared on the fence late Sunday morning – singing his song for about a minute, and then flew towards the back of the yard…where the feeders, (still empty) are. I watched him…cringing….but repentant. Then he actually flew back to his previous perch on the fence – close to the kitchen window, I might add, and sang his song again. I felt awful. I was so busted. Late Sunday evening after two shopping trips to two different stores I came home with the seed. I filled the feeders – all four of them, and rang their dinner bell. (Thank you, Pavlov). Nothing.
Now the day is beautiful. I have turned off the AC/Heat, etc., and opened the windows. I am waiting. Sitting outside...Staring towards the back of the yard. Monday’s prayer partner has temporarily disappeared, so I found my Book of Common Prayer and went through morning prayers…on my own even. Many get covered today…or targeted-depending on how you look at intercession. So, peace has come. I ring the dinner bell several times. I reward myself with the last cup of coffee. As I write this now, I hear the symphony of all sorts of feathered tribes. One distinctive chirp gets louder. I hold my breath. And here he comes: His red flashing. His honey is with him. Ahhhhhhhhhh. I can breathe again….I have been forgiven.
And now it is Palm Sunday. (Only a week left to go.) It has been a doozie of a Lent. I am back from Church; various family members waiting for attention, -food mostly, except one: My six year old granddaughter. We had journeyed together to the garden center the day before. My mind is now on evergreens-enough of this ripping out every year…but she wanted to have a voice in what “we” were going to plant this year. We get out of the car. The little voice next to me says, “Are we going to buy the same flowers you always get, or can we get something different?” I am a little stunned at her attitude but have to laugh – at least she has been paying attention. So it looks like the pink and red begonias are out on this trip. “Well, what would you like to plant?” “Red daisies.” “All righty then – Red daisies it is.”
“Dear God, I am at the garden center with You-Know-Who. Please let there be a red daisy somewhere…and affordable ones. Thank you.” And Voila’! There they were; or at least a reasonable convincing representation. They were in 6 inch pots. 10 for 25 dollars. Sold! We toured around the garden center. ..(I was pricing Knock-Out roses and Azaleas and other plants designed to brave the elements and climate change and etc. etc. etc.) Her little legs got tired and she crawled in the bottom of the cart, and I got a really good work-out. Home, we lined up the plants like little soldiers waiting for assignment, and discussed where they should go, and when we could plant them: Tomorrow after Church. Palm Sunday.
And she was waiting when I came in the back door. We put on our messy clothes and headed out to the backyard prayer garden, and started to dig. For me there is nothing like the ground to ground me…no pun intended. It is the smell of the dirt, the soil-the stuff of which we are made and who we are. The miracle of planting something in the ground and then everything that can happen - it changes shape and form and produces stuff that is pretty and colorful and edible and grows larger. It reminds me of much and takes me back to a reality and truth –the cycles of life and death and transformation and life and then death, etc. I had had a manicure a few days before, and considered wearing gloves…but no, I just had to get dirty and messy and muddy….because there is just something about the ground…
Which brings me to the earthworms. I just love them. There they are - hiding down there, covered in the soil, and always shocked and surprised when they are unearthed…wonderful wiggling worms...attempting to bury themselves immediately back into the safety of the underground. Doing their thing: eating and aerating and pushing through the soil; Fertilizing, helping the process. We delight whenever we discover one. The rule is if you ever find one wiggling on the pavement, you have to rescue him from inevitable death, gently pick him up, and put him back in the earth…My granddaughter loves them too. Really - No squeamish squeals from her. ..Just pure delight.
As I work to transplant the pansies, and make room for the red daisies, I hear the happy squeal behind me. She is holding several…one is really long and desperately trying to dive out of her hand and get back to the garden…"Look! Look!" She pets and strokes the pitiful thing, and then kisses it several times before I can respond. I am wondering if earthworms can survive little girl saliva from too much affection. It’s not lookin’ too good. The earthworm’s wiggles slow down, and she holds it up to the sun to investigate…talking to it….cooing actually. I convince her that it is best to put him back in the ground. Now the earthworm is completely still…no more wiggles…maybe it is just playing dead…I sigh.
I poke a deep hole in the dirt and pick up a wad of soil, rubbing it between my hands to loosen it. “Here”, I say…”Here is a nice bed for him. Let’s put him back.” She places him there. The worm lies quietly. We sprinkle his “dirt blanket” over him. And we turn our attention to the red daisies. Who knows… …maybe he’ll be resurrected too.
Copyright Marie Plauche’-Gustin, April 23, 2011 Holy Saturday
