Friday, August 17, 2012

Dare to plant a garden

I’m Planting A Garden

I’m planting a garden.

I, who have managed to let die most every green thing that has crossed my path, am planting a garden.

I’ll admit it may be that I’m starving for the metaphor. But for now let’s just say I’m hungry for lush green, ripe goodness…and plenty of it.

I’m well aware of what it will take; or probably I am not, but will share with you now what I do know so we all are certain I gave it my best shot.

I’m no gardener as I’ve told you, but I imagine it must go something like this.

Choose good ground. Choose ground that invites you; Ground that appears empty, but you know full well it is not (nor ever has been).

Soften the soil, mix it up. Grab great gobs of earth and let it run through your fingers. Give that earth some air, so it will breathe and welcome what you wish to plant.

I was going to say plant the seed, but already I’m getting ahead of myself.

Choose it first. Choose with care. You can scatter random seeds without thought, but that’s not the garden I’m planting now.

What bounty is your whole body yearning to receive?

Choose it, and remember that sometimes it looks like what it will become and sometimes not.

Then yes, plant it! Plant the tiny seed. Dig a nice little bed to welcome it.
(Note that you won’t ever see that seed again in this potent form).

Trust enough to let the ground swallow it. Cover it up with a wish or a prayer or your fingers crossed.

Pat it with firm hands. Acknowledge the sun and welcome it.

Moisten the earth with a hose, or tears, or dance the dance of rain.

And then wait.

And listen.

And listen, and wait.

Keep it company with a song, or children playing in the sprinkler, with hammock Sundays, with few good poems.

Listen, just for kicks, for the seed cracking open. Feel for the texture of life unfolding. Catch the un-catchable moment when green bursts through silent earth.

And then can you do this?

Welcome innocence. Welcome fragility. Welcome awe.

Don’t know what to do, but do it anyway.

Guard growth like a fierce mama bear.

Avoid excessive exposure to unrelenting heat. Offer shade with the fullness of your quiet body.

Avoid deluge. Nourish with drops.

Wait and listen. Wait and listen.

Because here is where it’s easy to blow it.

Don’t get distracted with the full, fecund, farmers market basket of plenty, spilling out endless bounty, ready for consumption.

Just be curious about your babies. Curious in a way those that lift us most, ask us questions that touch the seedling of our strength and allow it to sing to the sun.

I’d say absolutely expect blossoming. Outrageous blossoming!

All in good time.

But remember the ‘all in good time’ part. Time is good. It grows things.

It grows us.

It does not run out, but it runs with us, whispering - Now.



Have you heard time’s song? He’s singing to you now. He’s not counting hours! He’s singing to you!

And even when the seedlings sprout, life insisting on life stretches to a fullness in which most who see it say, ‘Well, look at you! So glorious! So bright! So full! How did you do it? How are you doing it? Just keep it up, up, up!’.

Don’t go there.

Run with time freely and joyously, and breathe in these moments of strength. But don’t draw any conclusions, don’t get distracted. Don’t assume that now is the time to push for the prize.

Now is the time to sit with the growing beauty. To sit still, not knowing. To sit still not knowing.

Water and listen. Water and listen.

And do the work, the practice of yanking the cut-throat weeds that grow swiftly and without care.

Because you care. You care deeply. But show this in the daily hours of living, not in every 
moment’s fret. Feed what needs to be fed, walk in sunlight. Notice the breath that moves in and the breath that is released.

And then, and now…wake up one morning, dear one, and run out of doors.

There, on this day when you expect it least, you will find yourself standing in a garden of your own allowing. Your work, your love, your daily necessities, all woven inseparably into every thriving thing.

And your blossom, dear love - Full. Lavish. Distinct.

This is a poem by Heidi Rose Robbins, it is a poem and a life manifesto. I just really love it and think it's very inspiring.
So the advice of the day is: plant a garden (of good thoughts, good deeds, love and every thing else that is important to you. Remember to choose the seed carefully).

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