Beyond the Garden

I cherish my plants. The bamboo and little cypress and bonsai trees and the plants outside that greet me each morning.  As I tended the bamboo I heard the whisper ‘Beyond the garden.’  I left the house shortly afterwards and sat on a rock sitting 10,000 feet above the earth pondering the whisper.

Gardens are to be cherished.  But at some point, for me, they become a metaphor of life.  I carve out a little piece of my full spirit, make a garden, and call it me.  The gardens we create let us feel needed, we tend them, they can even make us feel important, even let us feel in control and the tiny piece can even bring joy.  But I am not called to live in a carved out garden, a sliver of myself.  Called to go beyond the garden and fully awaken my expansive soul. Perhaps that is why nature calls so longingly and strong.

‘Look and see! Cherish your gardens, your niches in life, but they are only reminders of how much awaits, how big your spirit is and your heart. Cherish and tend your gardens, honor, compassion, and gentleness.  But they are not you as you were meant to be.  Do not be satisfied with one plant one piece of yourself you call your own when all of this, all of you is waiting for you to answer the call. Beyond the garden my child. My little one, beyond the garden the bounty of your full self awaits. Step out, step out and embrace the calling in your heart. Beyond the garden. Beyond the garden my child, You await.’  

Standing on top of the rock I realized if anything in the world breathed the quintessence of the will to live it is nature.  Stretching my arms out, face to the wind,  I shouted “Alive. Live. A Life. Life. Life lived.”   

Walking the path back to the car, still breathing the wind, the ever present doubt whispered, ‘Dark days will still overwhelm you, you know.’  Stopping I placed my hand on a tree and whispered back, ‘Perhaps.  But I have stepped beyond the garden and hung onto the wind.’

Reflecting promise

Some nights  you cannot explain. Somehow the clock loses the rhythm and unlike yourself, falls asleep, refusing to move. 


 The glow of the moon, against the blackened night sky, is made possible by the sun's light reflecting upon her darkness. Her reflecting light upon the darkened moon is all I can see, I cannot see the source.   I wait and sit with the night's dawn. I know I will never see this dawn again. The dance of the sun and moon is constant, but never the same. For all the thousands of years they have danced, not one is like the other. And yet, with different strokes painting the blush, their canvas, their presence and their promise remain steadfast in their sameness as they unfold the night. The promised light for waiting and trusting the source.

We all have rooms

We all have rooms, doors, closets or even sheds where the depth of our brokenness remains hidden.  Even the “No Trespassing” signs and barriers apply to us.  We do not want to remember those moments, hours, days, months or perhaps even years.  However fleeting the memory, it is enough to catch a glimpse of the door and remember.  Like the survivors of tornadoes, hurricanes, fires, floods or bombings, we stand clutching a broken picture frame as we gaze upon the destruction, the absence of what was, before quickly turning away.

I have not made peace with the door.  We have signed a truce.  It has made a persuasive argument for squatter’s rights having lingered in my soul for so many seasons.  In the legal world, if I had given notice to the squatter, the occupied land or shed would be mine.  Because I never told it to leave, never gave notice or attempted to evict, by default, I have surrendered the space.  Going forward, we will have to learn to cohabitate and live together.

Some gardens are meant to be wild.  Never weeded or pruned, their elegance is in their natural wildness and dance.  The order of nature determines the boundary and inhabitants.  Other gardens require more attention; nature’s fragility requests a helping hand to keep out unwanted squatters.  I will not tend the room’s garden.  Nature’s time will do her own pruning. Instead I need to learn to not waste my energy or strength trying to tame what should be wild, carefree and chaotic harmony.  I need to learn to focus my attention only upon those areas that may not be as strong or require vigilance to keep out unwanted weeds.  Not questioning or trying to tame creativity, laughter, love, and simple exuberance.  Diligent, however, with evicting the squatters -when I speak negatively of myself, let fear hold me back or dare to think I am unloved. 

We all have rooms, doors, closets or even sheds where the depth of our brokenness remains hidden.  But the house of Life in which I have been placed is ever so large and filled with both wild and tamed gardens.  The nature of life is to prune.  The nature of life is beauty.  The nature of life is vast and unexplored.  We all have rooms….Life is filled with gardens.  I choose the gardens over the room knowing one day, where a room once stood, a new garden will emerge sown from the rich moist soil of my heart.