a love letter to the garden

Today the garden is my glimpse into life with a little spark of light.  I kneel my sick, tired, passionless, cough-wracked body down beside the plot where tiny seedlings are emerging.  I can’t recall what I planted in each row, but instinct tells me which veggie sprouts to leave standing and which grass shoots to pull.  I gently prune the coriander forest that flanks the seedlings to keep it from smothering the tiny new plants.  These cilantro trimmings, stems and all, will make a spicy pesto – pungent, salty, and bright green over pasta.

 I spend slow time watering the tall snow peas, intermittently strapped to tilting bamboo stakes, but upright nonetheless.  From there I turn to the neon rainbow chard planted in heavy, molasses-lick containers.  Bright-light bright, the glowing yellow and fuschia pink stems nestle under the greenest of crisp green leaves.  I water the chard sparingly, thankful for the gift of the practical, water-saving containers and the life-giving cattle manure that fills them and nourishes the entire garden.    

I sprinkle water on the kale, a few beets, jungles of arugula, and dozens upon dozens of lettuces – baby bibb, boston, green and red leaf varieties that form a quilt so green, lush, and lively, it makes me long to feel that way again - lush, green, and lively.  Weeks without energy, breathing through heavy lungs, and aching inside and out have left me depleted.  More than in times of sadness, stress or crisis, these energyless times are the ones that leave me feeling alone.  Find me questioning why I insist on going at it alone, keeping love and connection a safe distance away.  Right when I need them most.  Right when I long to be held and to fall into the fold. 

I pick up the wet, soil-covered cilantro and close the garden gate behind me.