And Then There Was Light

I've neglected gardening on our creek bank for the past two years because I was really pissed that our gorgeous, gigantic poplar tree, under which I planted 100 daffodils, fell over into the creek leaving us with an ugly rootball.

Apparently I can hold a grudge for a long time.

As we all know, Nature abhors a vacuum and in that short two years salmon berry, laurel, horsetails, blackberries and God-knows-what ran rampant on the bank. I'm not sure why I was motivated to get in there and clean it all out, but I was shocked at what I found.

Several sad, half-dead hostas, puny pulmonaria and struggling astilbe that were ready to die. All for lack of light--because of my lack of care. Neglected.

Here's my spiritual lesson in this: if I don't take care of That which is blocking out the Light, That will simply continue to grow and block it out. Then I'm stuck having to a do a lot of painful (blackberries, remember) and time consuming work.

This has happened in one of my relationships where I've been too chicken to speak up and I just let things slide. One in particular was nearly dead from not tackling Light-blocking issues. Now we are working hard to save the friendship.

Seattle had two, count 'em TWO amazing days of sun during which I did all this yard work. But I can't wait until it's sunny and I feel inspired.

I must tend my garden all the time, vigilant against crowding by weeds, lack of Light or lack of water.

I stand corrected.

Monday Morning

I know my neighborhood pretty well so I can tell when sod has been laid down, or a fence put up, or flowers planted. I love walking my dog Max on Monday morning because I get to see the fruit of the weekend labor.

This morning I saw a woman start to get in her car to go to work, but she paused and stood there looking at her newly planted garden with a kind of awe and appreciation for the work she had done. You know how you do--you sort of stand there and think, "How the hell did I ever do that?" Then, with a groan, she got in the car. (Sore muscles are always the most painful a couple days after the labor.)

As a chaplain I get to be with cancer patients as they are doing hard personal and spiritual work. Going through chemo and surgery is like laboring all weekend in the garden. But unfortunately for me, I don't often get to see patients on "Monday" after they have done the work and experienced the transformation.

But once in a while, I'll run into someone a year later and that's when I get to have the "Monday" experience. I get to see the fruits of their labors. Their hair has grown back, perhaps they have a new appreciation for life, perhaps their family has a new appreciation for them. Maybe they've discovered who they really are. It's a gift for me to see how they've grown.

But this growth doesn't happen all at once. In the same that way planting a shrub doesn't necessarily mean that it's taken root; having cancer and all the realizations that go along with that doesn't guarantee personal growth. You have to water, weed and feed your new self.

And just so you know: I don't allow Max to pee on any new plantings. It just doesn't seem right.