Garden Lover (copy)

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Every spring, after especially long winter seasons in the mountains and valleys of the Kootenays in BC Canada, I remember just how very much I love gardening. How could I have forgotten? I exclaim to myself, each year, surprised by my forgetting. Stepping back into the garden once the ground has thawed and a soft spring sun hits my back, I remember and it feels so deeply good, like visiting a friend overseas and catching up over tea as if no time had passed and all feels right: Dear Garden, you bring me back to sanity, to feeling whole and serene. Same in the autumn season, when the leaves and stems fold to their ground, harvests have been plucked, gathered, celebrated, and all is nodding toward a winter of rest, I bow with gratitude for the solace and serenity gardening provides with such generosity.

This has nothing to do with having a green thumb. In fact, my thumb is definitely not green, and peoples’ who are remain an evasive mystery to me (How do they do it?!). But I am a garden lover… sniffing earth, touching ground, planting seeds with great hope, bending over the green and coloured miracles with delight, rejoicing in the best food ever as it comes from garden straight to family table, tucking the beds in like little babies for the winter slumber, whispering, “Rest well and thank you”.  Gardening is also my place and time for contemplation, for happily wandering thought. When I weed — a rather mindless, patient task — my busy mind likes to meander. The good thing is that having my hands in the dirt seems to steer me more toward creative, satisfying thought, rather than the rattling rambling this mind of mine can get tripped over and caught up in.

The insights and take-aways of such meanderings often delight me. I have collected them, some at least. Other mini-epiphanies have occurred to me, only to sail away in the wind like a dandelion seed, cause when your fingers are dirty and your knees grimy, you’re not likely gonna write in that notebook you never bring to the garden. But some have stayed and here they are — little notes and gifts received from myriad seasons of having hands in dirt:

Dong the Unthinkable

Which in this case, was taking down the big, healthy, water-sucking birch tree which stood strong and, well, smack in the middle of our garden. It didn’t make any sense to cut her down if you just looked at the birch tree herself. She used to be a small sapling, a fellow plant among many, but then, years in the making, she towered over all. Seriously, she was remarkable. She stood proud, tall, and stunning. The only thing was: she was standing in the middle of the garden and spreading her roots under and across all the garden beds. Which meant she was drinking water aplenty from our watering efforts, as well as slurping up the rainfalls, and absorbing copious nutrients, leaving little for the valiant growing efforts of our veggies and herbs. It came to the decision of garden or tree. We hummed and hawed for a few summers. Such a beautiful tree. Finally, we cut her down, after holding hands around her trunk, giving thanks, and promising never to forget her. Since then, the garden has thrived and we hope this birch tree’s spirit lives on in the other birches around the clearing. The lesson here? Even if something in your life is really cool and amazing, but not what you actually want to be doing, you need to stop, so that the rest can grow. Look at our pretty garden now:

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Gotta say No for the Yes to Grow

On a similar note, every year, when I head to the garden to thin some baby carrots – those wee beginnings of carrots, just tufts of green really – so as to create more space for the few I leave to fully grow and flourish, I encounter the following conundrum. In order to enable a few chosen carrots to thrive I need to pull out a lot of others, and the thicker I originally sowed the carrot seeds, the more I have to yank out. I don’t like yanking out baby carrots. My logical mind tells me they’re just tiny carrots. The rest of me feels like I am murdering baby carrots. Such responsibility. One pull too many and a whole potential carrot is gone! Never to come back. Not that one.

I focus carefully, burdened by the responsibility of picking which one will continue to grow, which one has to go. So many micro-decisions, one wee green tuft after the other. As I curiously follow my inner resistance to the task at hand, I have to chuckle. What a perfect reflection of my struggle with letting go of any one of my “too many projects on the go”, thereby continuously juggling ten balls at once, terrified I could drop one at any moment, or worse, not even notice I had dropped it till days later. Bridging life and my carrot thinning adventures: Where am I compromising depth and quality for too much width and quantity? Where could I serve more if I focused on less? Is there anything in my life that needs thinning, that is taking too much time away from what I am really here to do? And so the yearly carrot thinning exercise reminds me to: a) Sow less and more precisely. b) Discern what I am truly here to do. c) Make choices, clear clutter. If not, I’ll end up with crooked, wonky, small carrots. And exhausted to boot.

Wait, watch and wonder.

You need a bench. Or some such sitting spot. A nook. A hollow, a hill. To sit. To wait, to watch and to wonder. If you’re growing all this stuff with the help of the sun, moon, earth, rain and all… you might as well watch it grow, yes? Sit back and enjoy the fruits of your labor. Let it be and let it do its beautiful thing, which it does so well. And then do the same with the rest of your life… the garage you just built, the article you edited, the meal you cooked, the children you raise, the horses you tend, the students you teach… Stop between tasks or in the middle of them. Breathe, sit back and watch, delight in the being and the becoming of what you are helping exist.

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IMG_20221016_165402246

To be Stubbornly Glad.

Gardening is an act of defiance and a gesture of will to believe in life, to provide nourishment, to keep on going. Gardening is a great place to sink your tears, to pray for all those less fortunate, to move that energy, that grief, upon hearing of one tragedy after the other on the news. Gardening is putting the stake in the ground for life, for growth, for bounty. Gardening in the face of despair or simply weariness, is not giving up. It is stubbornness and persistence. It is trust ventured toward an unknown future. It is empowerment and choice to work with life rather than against it. Gardening is also therapy. It soothes and reminds of what you have in front of you: Your breath. Your hands. Seeds of potential. Nature unfolding according to a design ancient and wise. Your place in the puzzle of this unfolding universe. So, keep putting your stake in the ground, and as Jack Gilbert says in Brief of the Defense, “risk delight”.

“We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,

but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have

the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless

furnace of this world.”

Some Things are just Perfect. Like Grazing.

There is an absolute rightness felt upon beholding a young child feeding herself by grazing. Yes, just like a little goat. From raspberry bush to kale leaf. From carrot to red currant. And on to the lettuce, the parsley, the oregano, the lemon balm and chives. “Mmmm. It is SO good, mama!” “Yes, it is, sweetheart!” Seeing my merry lass feed herself in this way over the years always hits me right in that “rightness” place in my gut or soul… kinda the same spot in this instance. Best meal ever. So, the lesson? Plant a garden. Do it wherever and however you can. Could be a pot on your city balcony. Or a row in the front yard. On a roof top. In a community garden. There is always a space, however little it may be, where you can place seed into earth, water, wait and then delight in the harvest always such a space. Tend it. And then: graze to your heart’s delight.

Synergy in Action: where the sum total is more than the parts added up.

Growing a garden often involves more than one person. In my life, it is an endeavour my husband, daughter and I share. Plus a few thousand worms, minerals and who knows what else. Over the years we have figured out who likes to do what, who does what best, and how each of us can serve the most. Our trinity of action is made by finding the sweet spot where our Joy, our Capacity and our Service meet up and basically have a picnic together. What do I love doing? What am I good at doing? And does it serve the Whole? There is a complementary magic to this thing we call team work. My husband is not one for weeding. At over six feet tall, bending and crouching down is not his natural stance. I love it, squatting happily amongst dirt and green. Instead he delights in envisions, planning and landscaping. He excels at harvesting and does it right on time, an art unto itself when fall turns the garden into an overwhelming jungle of food. Our daughter? She is pro at nibbling and grazing, which makes it all worth it, offering a helping hand once in a while (which is nice and makes us think we are helping her build character), and … Voila! There you have it. The thing is: there are patterns here to be noted and built upon. Take landscaping: Steph does the meta-work: the noisy excavator digging big chunks of earth work. I get in there for the next layer, the raking and sifting, down to the patting the earth smooth with my hands (my favourite part). He visions. I add my imaginations and ideas. Back to the drawing board, each adding our part, and eventually we ground the imaginations together. In the end we look around and revisit the many decisions now tucked into the curve of a path, the layout of the beds, the slope angles and new berry patches. We watch our daughter gather tonight’s supper, or journal on the garden bench. So satisfying. We are each folded into the garden in our unique ways. We did it together.

Weeds are rarely just weeds.

As you now know, I love weeding. Such a straightforward task with clear goal and apparent results. Truly therapeutic, clearing mind and heart at the same time as garden bed. I have also noticed that some of my favourite lessons from the garden circle around the theme of weeds. So much symbolism, metaphor and wisdom held in their humble and resilient existence. Today’s note: Sometimes a weed is not actually a weed. May we tread with care, for as soon as we call it such, we dismiss it and do our best to dispatch of it. But: it could be a precious medicinal and well worth considering before you dig it up. Might the pesky dandelion be just what your carb-laden tummy needs: some hearty bitter to calm and balance the biome within? What about the wee pansies spreading their glory everywhere? Pretty food for salads. And the chickweed choking the lettuce heads? Turns out it too is a kind of lettuce. Well, sort of. It’s a green containing many plant compounds, lovely sprinkled onto salads, into soups and over other dishes, with potential soothing and healing qualities for human bodies. Can you hear the whispered wisdom of shadow work in this note? Also of open-mindedness and inquiry? Sometimes the things we deem “bad” are the buried gold that need scooping up in a warm welcome, listening to and integrating. Sometimes that which we don’t want to be, or think we shouldn’t be, and have pushed beyond our self-boundary into the realm of shadow and shame, just needs coaxing back into the daylight, appreciated, and allowed to exist and grow so that we become more whole.

Get to the Root of Matter. If you can.

Halfhearted weeding ends up being none at all. For before you blink, plus a few days of rain and sun, and that weed is right back, persisting as ever in your garden, and basically calling out with glee: “Ha, told you you can’t get me!” Plus not much comes close to the obvious satisfaction of pulling out a weed all the way down to its very roots. A thrill of success every time. The lesson: Getting to the root of any matter is always worth it, instead of engaging in endless symptom patching. This applies to all human conundrums too. If you’re sad, finding out what’s at the source of the tears is how you make way for real solace. Same with mad. And scared. We cover up so much. We pretend, we patch, we make do. And before we know it, what we tried to cover up just comes rearing back again, and so we circle round and round instead of spiralling up and on. So take the time to dig, follow the root till its end, bring it up to the light, and let it tell you its story.

And then, some roots just won’t ever come out, try as you may. Its like they are wedded to the earth forever, and no pulling, teasing, or cajoling will ever get them fully out. Take horsetail, for example. I hear it comes from prehistoric times. I don’t doubt it. There is no way — and I have tried, believe me — that you can ever get rid of the horsetail in your garden. As soon as you pull one up, if you’re even lucky enough to get its root before it snaps, there are a zillion others just next door, underneath, in between and around. As far as I can tell, there is an underground maize of interlocked horsetail, all on a mission to exist forever. And so there is a time and place for acceptance too. For surrender, and how does that saying go? Something like: Change what you can, accept what you can’t, and have the wisdom to know the difference.

IMG_2028
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Think in Long Arcs of Time.

I started gardening in my early twenties with my husband and a few equally enthusiastic roommates. We learned alongside each other. We read a few books. We experimented. We planted and things grew! Some of us were more interested in the practical matter of growing food. Others of us, while deeply appreciating the miraculous food grown, had our eyes on beauty above all else: flowers, butterflies and hummingbirds, shapes of garden beds, and the general aesthetics of a garden well tended, which involved bringing in more flowers, as many as possible. That was me. With Beauty as my main lens, I noticed how in the valley below there grew copious amounts of buttercups. Enthralled by their pretty goldenness, I spent afternoons digging up clumps of buttercups from ditches and fields, and carrying them up the mountainside on my bicycle with an equally besotted friend. We then planted them lovingly. Oooh, so much gold! All over the garden. So beautiful! But alas, as the gardener in me matured, and the buttercups kept on spreading all over the garden, I learned that — yikes! — buttercups are highly prolific and invasive, basically a pretty weed that shouldn’t be in a garden, but better belongs in a field. At that point, I also understood that my husband truly loved me, for despite his eye rolls and deeply practical preferences, he hadn’t stood in the way of my buttercup importation. Twenty plus years and I am still pulling them out. A reminder of youthful folly, forgiveness, as well as: “Think ahead, darling!”

Letting Grow instead of Yanking.

When I slow down enough to watch Nature do her thing, I notice time and again, that there is indeed a time for everything. There is a time to sow, and a time to reap. There is a time to laugh and a time to weep. There is a time to curl up and hibernate, and a time to unfold and express. And each growing thing has its own timing. We would never pull at a kale plant in our garden in the hopes it would grow faster. How do we miss this simple truth when it comes to ourselves and our fellow humans, especially the little ones in our lives? When did we get the idea that if we yank on ourselves or another, we would grow quicker, mature faster, get over our follies and foibles more efficiently?

The only way to help a vegetable grow in a garden is to nurture the soil it sits in. And the only way to do that effectively is to find out if there is anything missing (or too much of) in said soil. Back to us humans. May we create the conditions for growth and healing, instead of pushing and pulling. May we look carefully at the “ground” upon which each of us stands and investigate what might be missing, or what there might be too much of. May we then act accordingly. Likely the ground needs more kindness, more honesty, more love… that kind of thing. And likely, the ground needs less shame, less threat, less scolding.

No attachment to Outcome.

Gardens are not machines. Nor is the weather. Nor anything else connected with nature, thankfully. But also: so many unknowns, myriad surprises. Groundhogs find their way to the juiciest cabbages. Rabbits can clear out early greens like nobody’s business. Aphids can turn the most glorious kale into wilted grey shells of their former selves. Weeds can come out of nowhere and choke your onions. Deer can get you replanting your starts three times, or more. Bears can take down entire fence lines in their quest for the apples. Blueberry bushes may or may not produce, depending on the year; I am sure there is a reason, but I haven’t figured it out. I write this note the morning after our first frost this year, an early one as we have just entered October (I started writing this piece on garden insights in the spring, and then… the garden (and with that I mean the rest of life took over). Last night at 11pm my husband sniffs the air and guesses a frost is on its way. No idea how he knows such things (perhaps people with green thumbs also sniff the air differently?). Confirmed by a check of weather forecast, we make our way with headlamps, gather mighty pumpkins and second-growth broccoli, throw towels over some flower patches and lettuce rows I hope survive. And today, as the sun rises over a gorgeous mist, I check to see what the frost brought: it was a  hard one. Not even my covered lettuces survived. Some flowers did. Ah well, no attachment to outcome. An ongoing life lesson indeed.

What else to be discovered?

I imagine many more insights tucked away in the folds of each garden. I look forward to the ones I have yet to uncover as I keep on digging. I would love to hear yours if you have some to share.

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Garden Lover

/0 Comments/in , ,

Every spring, after especially long winter seasons in the mountains and valleys of the Kootenays in BC Canada, I remember just how very much I love gardening. How could I have forgotten? I exclaim to myself, each year, surprised by my forgetting. Stepping back into the garden once the ground has thawed and a soft spring sun hits my back, I remember and it feels so deeply good, like visiting a friend overseas and catching up over tea as if no time had passed and all feels right: Dear Garden, you bring me back to sanity, to feeling whole and serene. Same in the autumn season, when the leaves and stems fold to their ground, harvests have been plucked, gathered, celebrated, and all is nodding toward a winter of rest, I bow with gratitude for the solace and serenity gardening provides with such generosity. 

This has nothing to do with having a green thumb. In fact, my thumb is definitely not green, and peoples’ who are remain an evasive mystery to me (How do they do it?!). But I am a garden lover… sniffing earth, touching ground, planting seeds with great hope, bending over the green and coloured miracles with delight, rejoicing in the best food ever as it comes from garden straight to family table, tucking the beds in like little babies for the winter slumber, whispering, “Rest well and thank you”.  Gardening is also my place and time for contemplation, for happily wandering thought. When I weed — a rather mindless, patient task — my busy mind likes to meander. The good thing is that having my hands in the dirt seems to steer me more toward creative, satisfying thought, rather than the rattling rambling this mind of mine can get tripped over and caught up in.

The insights and take-aways of such meanderings often delight me. I have collected them, some at least. Other mini-epiphanies have occurred to me, only to sail away in the wind like a dandelion seed, cause when your fingers are dirty and your knees grimy, you’re not likely gonna write in that notebook you never bring to the garden. But some have stayed and here they are — little notes and gifts received from myriad seasons of having hands in dirt:

Doing the Unthinkable

Which in this case, was taking down the big, healthy, water-sucking birch tree which stood strong and, well, smack in the middle of our garden. It didn’t make any sense to cut her down if you just looked at the birch tree herself. She used to be a small sapling, a fellow plant among many, but then, years in the making, she towered over all. Seriously, she was remarkable. She stood proud, tall, and stunning. The only thing was: she was standing in the middle of the garden and spreading her roots under and across all the garden beds. Which meant she was drinking water aplenty from our watering efforts, as well as slurping up the rainfalls, and absorbing copious nutrients, leaving little for the valiant growing efforts of our veggies and herbs. It came to the decision of garden or tree. We hummed and hawed for a few summers. Such a beautiful tree. Finally, we cut her down, after holding hands around her trunk, giving thanks, and promising never to forget her. Since then, the garden has thrived and we hope this birch tree’s spirit lives on in the other birches around the clearing. The lesson here? Even if something in your life is really cool and amazing, but not what you actually want to be doing, you need to stop, so that the rest can grow. Look at our pretty garden now:

 

 

Gotta say No for the Yes to Grow

On a similar note, every year, when I head to the garden to thin some baby carrots – those wee beginnings of carrots, just tufts of green really – so as to create more space for the few I leave to fully grow and flourish, I encounter the following conundrum. In order to enable a few chosen carrots to thrive I need to pull out a lot of others, and the thicker I originally sowed the carrot seeds, the more I have to yank out. I don’t like yanking out baby carrots. My logical mind tells me they’re just tiny carrots. The rest of me feels like I am murdering baby carrots. Such responsibility. One pull too many and a whole potential carrot is gone! Never to come back. Not that one.

I focus carefully, burdened by the responsibility of picking which one will continue to grow, which one has to go. So many micro-decisions, one wee green tuft after the other. As I curiously follow my inner resistance to the task at hand, I have to chuckle. What a perfect reflection of my struggle with letting go of any one of my “too many projects on the go”, thereby continuously juggling ten balls at once, terrified I could drop one at any moment, or worse, not even notice I had dropped it till days later. Bridging life and my carrot thinning adventures: Where am I compromising depth and quality for too much width and quantity? Where could I serve more if I focused on less? Is there anything in my life that needs thinning, that is taking too much time away from what I am really here to do? And so the yearly carrot thinning exercise reminds me to: a) Sow less and more precisely. b) Discern what I am truly here to do. c) Make choices, clear clutter. If not, I’ll end up with crooked, wonky, small carrots. And exhausted to boot.

Wait, watch and wonder.

You need a bench. Or some such sitting spot. A nook. A hollow, a hill. To sit. To wait, to watch and to wonder. If you’re growing all this stuff with the help of the sun, moon, earth, rain and all… you might as well watch it grow, yes? Sit back and enjoy the fruits of your labor. Let it be and let it do its beautiful thing, which it does so well. And then do the same with the rest of your life… the garage you just built, the article you edited, the meal you cooked, the children you raise, the horses you tend, the students you teach… Stop between tasks or in the middle of them. Breathe, sit back and watch, delight in the being and the becoming of what you are helping exist.

To be Stubbornly Glad.

Gardening is an act of defiance and a gesture of will to believe in life, to provide nourishment, to keep on going. Gardening is a great place to sink your tears, to pray for all those less fortunate, to move that energy, that grief, upon hearing of one tragedy after the other on the news. Gardening is putting the stake in the ground for life, for growth, for bounty. Gardening in the face of despair or simply weariness, is not giving up. It is stubbornness and persistence. It is trust ventured toward an unknown future. It is empowerment and choice to work with life rather than against it. Gardening is also therapy. It soothes and reminds of what you have in front of you: Your breath. Your hands. Seeds of potential. Nature unfolding according to a design ancient and wise. Your place in the puzzle of this unfolding universe. So, keep putting your stake in the ground, and as Jack Gilbert says in Brief of the Defense, “risk delight”.

“We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,

but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have

the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless

furnace of this world.”

Some Things are just Perfect. Like Grazing.

There is an absolute rightness felt upon beholding a young child feeding herself by grazing. Yes, just like a little goat. From raspberry bush to kale leaf. From carrot to red currant. And on to the lettuce, the parsley, the oregano, the lemon balm and chives. “Mmmm. It is SO good, mama!” “Yes, it is, sweetheart!” Seeing my merry lass feed herself in this way over the years always hits me right in that “rightness” place in my gut or soul… kinda the same spot in this instance. Best meal ever. So, the lesson? Plant a garden. Do it wherever and however you can. Could be a pot on your city balcony. Or a row in the front yard. On a roof top. In a community garden. There is always a space, however little it may be, where you can place seed into earth, water, wait and then delight in the harvest always such a space. Tend it. And then: graze to your heart’s delight.

Synergy in Action: where the sum total is more than the parts added up.

Growing a garden often involves more than one person. In my life, it is an endeavour my husband, daughter and I share. Plus a few thousand worms, minerals and who knows what else. Over the years we have figured out who likes to do what, who does what best, and how each of us can serve the most. Our trinity of action is made by finding the sweet spot where our Joy, our Capacity and our Service meet up and basically have a picnic together. What do I love doing? What am I good at doing? And does it serve the Whole? There is a complementary magic to this thing we call team work. My husband is not one for weeding. At over six feet tall, bending and crouching down is not his natural stance. I love it, squatting happily amongst dirt and green. Instead he delights in envisions, planning and landscaping. He excels at harvesting and does it right on time, an art unto itself when fall turns the garden into an overwhelming jungle of food. Our daughter? She is pro at nibbling and grazing, which makes it all worth it, offering a helping hand once in a while (which is nice and makes us think we are helping her build character), and … Voila! There you have it. The thing is: there are patterns here to be noted and built upon. Take landscaping: Steph does the meta-work: the noisy excavator digging big chunks of earth work. I get in there for the next layer, the raking and sifting, down to the patting the earth smooth with my hands (my favourite part). He visions. I add my imaginations and ideas. Back to the drawing board, each adding our part, and eventually we ground the imaginations together. In the end we look around and revisit the many decisions now tucked into the curve of a path, the layout of the beds, the slope angles and new berry patches. We watch our daughter gather tonight’s supper, or journal on the garden bench. So satisfying. We are each folded into the garden in our unique ways. We did it together.

Weeds are rarely just weeds.

As you now know, I love weeding. Such a straightforward task with clear goal and apparent results. Truly therapeutic, clearing mind and heart at the same time as garden bed. I have also noticed that some of my favourite lessons from the garden circle around the theme of weeds. So much symbolism, metaphor and wisdom held in their humble and resilient existence. Today’s note: Sometimes a weed is not actually a weed. May we tread with care, for as soon as we call it such, we dismiss it and do our best to dispatch of it. But: it could be a precious medicinal and well worth considering before you dig it up. Might the pesky dandelion be just what your carb-laden tummy needs: some hearty bitter to calm and balance the biome within? What about the wee pansies spreading their glory everywhere? Pretty food for salads. And the chickweed choking the lettuce heads? Turns out it too is a kind of lettuce. Well, sort of. It’s a green containing many plant compounds, lovely sprinkled onto salads, into soups and over other dishes, with potential soothing and healing qualities for human bodies. Can you hear the whispered wisdom of shadow work in this note? Also of open-mindedness and inquiry? Sometimes the things we deem “bad” are the buried gold that need scooping up in a warm welcome, listening to and integrating. Sometimes that which we don’t want to be, or think we shouldn’t be, and have pushed beyond our self-boundary into the realm of shadow and shame, just needs coaxing back into the daylight, appreciated, and allowed to exist and grow so that we become more whole.

Get to the Root of Matter. If you can.

Halfhearted weeding ends up being none at all. For before you blink, plus a few days of rain and sun, and that weed is right back, persisting as ever in your garden, and basically calling out with glee: “Ha, told you you can’t get me!” Plus not much comes close to the obvious satisfaction of pulling out a weed all the way down to its very roots. A thrill of success every time. The lesson: Getting to the root of any matter is always worth it, instead of engaging in endless symptom patching. This applies to all human conundrums too. If you’re sad, finding out what’s at the source of the tears is how you make way for real solace. Same with mad. And scared. We cover up so much. We pretend, we patch, we make do. And before we know it, what we tried to cover up just comes rearing back again, and so we circle round and round instead of spiralling up and on. So take the time to dig, follow the root till its end, bring it up to the light, and let it tell you its story.

And then, some roots just won’t ever come out, try as you may. Its like they are wedded to the earth forever, and no pulling, teasing, or cajoling will ever get them fully out. Take horsetail, for example. I hear it comes from prehistoric times. I don’t doubt it. There is no way — and I have tried, believe me — that you can ever get rid of the horsetail in your garden. As soon as you pull one up, if you’re even lucky enough to get its root before it snaps, there are a zillion others just next door, underneath, in between and around. As far as I can tell, there is an underground maize of interlocked horsetail, all on a mission to exist forever. And so there is a time and place for acceptance too. For surrender, and how does that saying go? Something like: Change what you can, accept what you can’t, and have the wisdom to know the difference.

 

Think in Long Arcs of Time.

I started gardening in my early twenties with my husband and a few equally enthusiastic roommates. We learned alongside each other. We read a few books. We experimented. We planted and things grew! Some of us were more interested in the practical matter of growing food. Others of us, while deeply appreciating the miraculous food grown, had our eyes on beauty above all else: flowers, butterflies and hummingbirds, shapes of garden beds, and the general aesthetics of a garden well tended, which involved bringing in more flowers, as many as possible. That was me. With Beauty as my main lens, I noticed how in the valley below there grew copious amounts of buttercups. Enthralled by their pretty goldenness, I spent afternoons digging up clumps of buttercups from ditches and fields, and carrying them up the mountainside on my bicycle with an equally besotted friend. We then planted them lovingly. Oooh, so much gold! All over the garden. So beautiful! But alas, as the gardener in me matured, and the buttercups kept on spreading all over the garden, I learned that — yikes! — buttercups are highly prolific and invasive, basically a pretty weed that shouldn’t be in a garden, but better belongs in a field. At that point, I also understood that my husband truly loved me, for despite his eye rolls and deeply practical preferences, he hadn’t stood in the way of my buttercup importation. Twenty plus years and I am still pulling them out. A reminder of youthful folly, forgiveness, as well as: “Think ahead, darling!”

Letting Grow instead of Yanking.

When I slow down enough to watch Nature do her thing, I notice time and again, that there is indeed a time for everything. There is a time to sow, and a time to reap. There is a time to laugh and a time to weep. There is a time to curl up and hibernate, and a time to unfold and express. And each growing thing has its own timing. We would never pull at a kale plant in our garden in the hopes it would grow faster. How do we miss this simple truth when it comes to ourselves and our fellow humans, especially the little ones in our lives? When did we get the idea that if we yank on ourselves or another, we would grow quicker, mature faster, get over our follies and foibles more efficiently?

The only way to help a vegetable grow in a garden is to nurture the soil it sits in. And the only way to do that effectively is to find out if there is anything missing (or too much of) in said soil. Back to us humans. May we create the conditions for growth and healing, instead of pushing and pulling. May we look carefully at the “ground” upon which each of us stands and investigate what might be missing, or what there might be too much of. May we then act accordingly. Likely the ground needs more kindness, more honesty, more love… that kind of thing. And likely, the ground needs less shame, less threat, less scolding.

No attachment to Outcome.

Gardens are not machines. Nor is the weather. Nor anything else connected with nature, thankfully. But also: so many unknowns, myriad surprises. Groundhogs find their way to the juiciest cabbages. Rabbits can clear out early greens like nobody’s business. Aphids can turn the most glorious kale into wilted grey shells of their former selves. Weeds can come out of nowhere and choke your onions. Deer can get you replanting your starts three times, or more. Bears can take down entire fence lines in their quest for the apples. Blueberry bushes may or may not produce, depending on the year; I am sure there is a reason, but I haven’t figured it out. I write this note the morning after our first frost this year, an early one as we have just entered October (I started writing this piece on garden insights in the spring, and then… the garden (and with that I mean the rest of life took over). Last night at 11pm my husband sniffs the air and guesses a frost is on its way. No idea how he knows such things (perhaps people with green thumbs also sniff the air differently?). Confirmed by a check of weather forecast, we make our way with headlamps, gather mighty pumpkins and second-growth broccoli, throw towels over some flower patches and lettuce rows I hope survive. And today, as the sun rises over a gorgeous mist, I check to see what the frost brought: it was a  hard one. Not even my covered lettuces survived. Some flowers did. Ah well, no attachment to outcome. An ongoing life lesson indeed.

What else to be discovered?

I imagine many more insights tucked away in the folds of each garden. I look forward to the ones I have yet to uncover as I keep on digging. I would love to hear yours if you have some to share.

 

Impressions of a Wildfire Summer

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One lightening storm one evening. No rain. July 17th.

A summer irrevocably changed with

a multitude of fires lit across the landscape of the Kootenays.

Some extinguished within hours or days

Others turning from smoulder to raging fires

And this valley here, goes from a peaceful easing into summer after a long Canadian winter and a lush green spring

To sudden activation and prolonged uncertainty upon a backdrop of endless days of hot sunshine hidden by smoke, and drying earth.

On high alert for days and weeks

We enter a drawn out state of the liminal

Checking every breeze, every app, every possible raindrop (there are none), every cloud formation and smoke trail

For telltale signs of direction, fierceness and likelihood

Of sparks, fires coming closer to our homes and community

Flurries of packing, what is precious, what is not?

How do you decide? Beyond the obvious decisions of photo albums, laptops and passports,

Random choices made quickly.

Is this really a favourite dress worth keeping or not? Would I miss this painting or forget it ever hung on our wall?

The longer the evacuation alert, the longer such questions, the more the packing.

We stand on our decks and look up and around. Sometimes every half hour, sometimes more.

From our particular perch we have two fires in view — Mulvey Creek and Ponderosa are their names.

One to the left, one to the right.

One a ridge over, the other a creek away.

I find myself doing odd things, thinking funny thoughts.

I vacuum the house in case we need to leave

And catch myself wondering: who am I cleaning it for?

For our family’s return as a welcoming doormat?

As a spell cast, because some magical part of me is convinced that a tidy house is less likely to burn?!

To will it to safety through this mundane task of care?

Neighbours and friends rally

Welcoming with such gracious generosity pastures for horses, pens for sheep and whatever livestock needs moving

Storage spaces, parking lots

Checking in and sending their care.

Each gesture such balm.

Then evacuation order.

Many leave, some stay.

Lines drawn across a once flowing landscape.

Now we have a local border.

A line that divides those who can move freely but must camp at friend’s houses and use makeshift arrangements for unforeseeable futures,

Their homes entrusted to the wildfire services, the sprinklers, the winds and the weather,

The seeming untameable flames,

And then those who stay to defend their slices of home against such forces, and offer on-the- ground updates of a community and its surrounding mountain flanks shrouded in layers upon layers of smoke.

Social media — that minefield where madness and connection, reactivity, blame, and generous love, information, offers of help, rumours, hopes, fears and dreams all tumble together —

tethers everyone across all lines, at least those who dare venture into the

soapbox for all.

Who are we as a community when under duress?

What rises to the surface? How decent are we as a collective?

I find myself heartened and dismayed, for we show up both beautifully and hurtfully. Truths and untruths are told. Finger pointing darts of blame, intelligent inquiries, and thoughtful embraces are shared.

I notice my varied and ever-changing relationship with fire:

Commanding prayers that the fires are balanced by moisture, rain, please rain.

Tentative sensing into fire and getting a glimpse of its energy without bounds, its cleansing power, its suppression finally finding expression

Wishful thinking, focused invocations, visualizations of pouring rain

Coming at it with the calm clarity of a mother

The frantic supplication of a fed-up kid

The acceptance and surrender of a tired human

The renewed effort to somehow, in which ever little way, support the efforts of those on the ground and in the air, with all the subtle energetics possible, including a thumbs-up to every helicopter passing overhead, and blowing kisses to each firetruck driving home at the end of another day.

Exhaustion hitting daily in the middle afternoon

Slammed by ten thousand worries that couldn’t find a doorstep to rest and release,

but gather up to overcrowd the system once every 24 hours in a fatigue so great the only solution

is a nap

With the tired crashing over me like a giant wave under which I can’t move, I am plastered to horizontal and so very thankful for said recline.

Busy while doing nothing

For weeks

What happened to my life, my focus and work?

I scrape through the main to do’s, keep the professional appointments and show up.

The rest, I let go.

For I am so busy doing nothing else but willing this community safe from the wildfires, comforting and assuring my loved ones,

And checking all the apps and weather forecasts again and again, as if I can will some rain and the right direction and intensity of winds (calm is good, smoke weirdly is also good for it means calm winds)

By staring at the little screen long enough.

When — unrelated to the wildfires to our left and right — a neighbour’s house lights on fire halfway through the evacuation order, Monday evening August 5, with dark black smoke raging sideways across the sky (what are the frickin odds of that happening?!)

We all slide to the edge of our capacities, while frantically and helpfully texting amongst affected neighbours, and breathing

We pace and pray out loud

We huddle in a pile

We sail on the precipice of howling laughter as we startle each other walking round a corner, our nerves on such edge it takes nothing to ignite helpless release of tears camouflaged as cackles.

Thank God for the quick neighborhood response and the local fire brigades, a few hours later — nerves shattered, adrenaline exhausted — we hear it has not spread, the fire is out, and we go to bed, relieved and more exhausted. Some of us hitting a wall of fury (enough is enough) the next morning, with unsheltered grief close behind. And fatigue. Deep fatigue.

Through it all, again and again, whispered and out-loud gratitude for the grit and grace, the bravery and courage, the generous service and diligent intelligence of the

firefighters;

The heli pilots;

Those discerning best approaches through maps and shared knowledge of fire behaviour in this particular valley and elsewhere;

The local community forest SIFCo that has foreseen such a summer when hardly anyone thought this could be possible, and spent close to two decades preparing the valley with wildfire interface management for this;

The communication officers, the road patrol, the volunteers;

Those behind the scenes we may never know by name, thank you!

The cooks and those hosting the resiliency centre that celebrated its opening four days into the fire (weirdly perfect timing);

And all the feet on ground, hands reaching toward one another, care spread like soothing blanket across this valley covered in smoke and stress, as well as neighbouring valleys in similar predicaments.

We share text messages with check ins. We delight in any headway made to save a beloved community from the fires. We cheer each other on. We send updates to friends near and far, they too sending prayers for this gem of a place.

There are many days when it seems we might be turning a corner.

But we don’t. The weight continues.

The fires keep making their fiery way, some moving further to the back mountains where wildlife will be fleeing and floundering their way to safety (may they find sanctuary)

Other fires crawling closer night by night as the flames move downward. We are just one strong gust away from sparks flying across a creek or over a ridge to bring imminent danger to doorsteps.

One person’s favourite wind direction

May be another one’s sorrow

Depending where we stand, where we call home

And over the days, a generous surrender rises: celebrating every raindrop even as none fall to our feet (as long as somewhere in a neighbouring community fire is quenched we are thrilled), rejoicing in every wind direction that brings someone — human and animal, plant and earth — respite. It all matters.

As a valley collective we have been holding our breath

For almost a month.

Ribcages tight from worry and smoke

Managing, doing ‘fine’ when all it takes is a little bump to be reminded how on edge everyone is.

How resilient we humans are. And how wildly tender too.

And then the magnificent day, the news that all valley communities are no longer on evacuation order.

Just on alert — a state we have all become so used to that it feels like a weird relief to simply be on alert.

Fires are finding containment, at least on some fronts.

Fire guards and hose lines, back burns and wind directions, heli buckets of river water and the fire burning itself a path away from the valley floor… all these and more contribute to the fantastic news:

Everyone can return home!

Water the gardens. Touch the familiar surfaces. Check in with the neighbours. Do the laundry. Settle in together and alone.

Whole villages. Uprooted and deserted now coming back into daily co-existence.

And the sobering update that a few homes have burned. The news like charred wood, too hot to hold in my hand, heart exploding in dismay and sorrow that what we all feared has indeed come to pass for some of our community members. May they experience the support of the whole; may grace and courage accompany them as they make their way through the shock and grief.

August 12th I drive to town in the opposite direction of all the homecoming cars the morning of the downgrade from evacuation order to alert (it really should be called an upgrade).

One car after the other, some with trailers, and campers, filled with precious goods as well as mattresses and pillows and all the things that were jumbled up in the rush to leave.

As I watch this caravan of return, tears I didn’t know lay dormant in me rise up and out

So moved am I to see others reflecting back this crazy summer.

Coming home.

I start waving to each one. No idea if they can see me. But I want to say to each one: welcome back, welcome home, you made it, we made it!

It’s been alot.

I feel lifted all day, an inner spring underway, green sprouts of ‘liftedness’ in my veins.

Bless each of you.

May we now release our shared held breath.

May our ribcages expand. Even as the skies are still smoke-filled. Even as it may take days, months, even years to fully integrate.

May we give thanks to all the forces that enabled safe return.

May we learn the lessons — the internal and external ones — so that as a community and as individuals, we come out of this more robust and resilient, kinder and compassionate.

May we let the tears flow. They, like the rain, allow for cleansing release, new beginnings and integration.

May we be gentle with one another. Gentle. gentle.

What if?

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I am sitting under the tree that still has many leaves to shed. Those already fallen, spread around my feet, a carpet of gold.

I had to come outside. With the walls pressing in, fresh air was needed.

The temperature of the world has surely gone down this past week as the world reels in the wake of atrocities with many innocent caught in the middle.

Little ones, growing ones, parents and elders.

How have we come so low? For it is not just ‘over there.’ It is the whole of humanity that has stooped to another low low. That has lost its way. Whose pain and suffering has spilled over into an expression of more horror. We may be spared the immediate effects of such horror, and yet we are part of this same humanity that does this to one another.

What the actual fuck. mercy mercy mercy.

I sit in the shelter of the golden fall tree, rain drops start falling gently.

Grief sits on the heart. The world stooped in discouragement. My mind only barely able to touch the horror of mothers searching frantically for lost children.

I imagine the many voices reaching up to the heavens, wailing why and how and how could you? How could you, God, not prevent this darkest hour?! And more wails, in other valleys and plains, same cry and heart-wrenched anguish.

I am reminded of a mother I met years ago, who had lost her infant daughter. She spoke to me of the many words uttered that did nothing to comfort her… “It must have been her time.” “God’s will is a mystery.” “Perhaps for the better.” “Her soul only needed to land for a short time here on this earth.“ “She is in a better place.”

None of these did a thing to soothe, to understand the unfathomable grief of child cherished and lost.

But one. There was one sentence shared that changed the way the light slanted into the room, her heart, her grappling. And it was this:

“God is surely the first to weep alongside you as your bury your child.”

God weeping.

Could that be? The God we hear of with adjectives such as “all powerful”, “all mighty”, “creator of heaven and of earth”… could such a God be weeping? And not fricking intervening?

What if…

What if God is as dismayed, as torn apart — perhaps even more — than we are when witnessing the destruction we impose upon one another? Perhaps there are multitudes of angels, risen ones, God Itself, wanting so very much with every fibre of Existence to do something, to protect, to soothe, to hold back violence, to let Love flourish. And the one central contract that comes with Love is Freedom. Freedom. However terrible the choices made by the beloved and lost humans. Perhaps the heavens are filled with “WTF!?” How could they, our cherished humans turn against one other with such ferocity? Hand wringing. Wailing above, as below. Tethered to witness, in love, and limited by the contract intrinsic to Love: that Love sets free, that one gets to choose.

The closest I can get to pondering this as an actual possibility is my experience as a mother, woven with the experiences of parents across the earth over all the generations, as we are faced with this: To love your child is to let them go. Eventually. One day. They will head off into the great big world and they will make their choices. They will choose their friends, and partner. They will decide when they go to bed, what they eat, how they respond to Life in its challenges and its blessings. There is a point in each parenting journey where to hold on and hold back is to smother and stifle. There is a moment where we may watch in dismay as our child makes a choice, or a bunch of them, perhaps even years of them, that we disagree with. Weep and fret over. But Love holds the contract with Freedom. You cannot love and stifle. You cannot love and control the beloved.

Could it be that God similarly is weeping first? Is aghast at what we are choosing? Is waiting for us to reach out, up, inward… whatever the case may be, and to implore interference. To beg for mercy. To embody the Love offered. And yet, still then… the contract of Love is free will.

And could God really be trusting us to eventually make right choices? Are we not simply digging our graves over and over again? Are we not proving repeatedly and tragically that we are incapable of making right choice? If my musings hold, then who on earth came up with this design? Ha, back to God. What on earth was this Source of all Life thinking?! We are so flawed. Could there have been a better design? Is it really up to us to find peace within and amongst each other? Will we ever be up to the task? Is it truly in our hands to look at a situation as insurmountable as the conflict in the Middle East and to not give up, to keep looking creatively for the solution, the one that embraces all the people? That is all-considerate. That one.  Are we capable of this?

I am reminded of the famous hands reaching between God and Human in Michelangelo’s “The Creation of Adam” fresco. One hand reaching down, the other up. Straining to reach, to touch. It has always felt to me to be an image of humans being invited to team work. To co-creativity. One wherein the ‘yes’ has to come from us, given freely. It is not enough to implore, to beg, to pray. We have to step up, step into the ring of fire too. Could we be more powerful than we ever thought, and also more powerless than we ever imagined? Could it be that God is inviting us to coordinate, to collaborate, even to synergise? It is our choice, to choose and to enact peace. To choose and enact Love. But we don’t have to do it alone.

What if.

Image credit: Daniel Bonnell

Easter Saturday: suspended & heightened. The liminal space we find ourselves in during this pandemic.

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Easter Saturday. A day of waiting, of unknown. liminal, empty, uncertain. A day of dark, of facing death and loss. A day of grief, of resistance and perhaps gradual acceptance. A day of feeling all the losses, all the pain and sorrows, a day of not turning the other way, but simply and profoundly: being with. As hard and uncomfortable as that may be.

What is happening on this day is not visible to the eye. It is stirring beneath the surface, perhaps imperceptible to the point of nothing. But there is something happening, for even simply bearing the unknown is something. To not turn away even when we don’t know how to move forward is transformative.

To breath through whatever feelings may be coursing through our bodies, while not gasping for distraction or any kind of numbing, is piercing and is alot. We come out the other side changed and ready for Easter, for resurrection, for new life. But in order to truly come out the other side, it seems that Easter Saturday, this liminal, achy, lost, nothing-ness but alot-ness needs to happen and is part of the recipe for awakening, for spring.

As a teen I began contemplating how Easter Saturday might have felt to the friends of Jesus. They who truly didn’t know about Sunday being round the corner. Who were only feeling the loss and confusion. They who didn’t have the benefit of the future, of knowing that resurrection – as promised as it might have been – actually would come to pass. How would that day of emptiness, of coming to terms with the death of their most beloved friend and teacher have felt? Devastating we can imagine, as we all have had such moments, days, weeks and years, when that which was most dear to us, most important, was gone to our perceptions and knowledge. Gone. With no guarantee of return.

Today and these past weeks, as our whole human family faces and deals with the covid-19 pandemic, I feel we are in a long, drawn-out Easter Saturday. A time when life is suspended and heightened. When the Unknown looms larger than ever. Grief is at our finger tips and takes over in waves. Fear crawls just under the surface and explodes here and there. Hope sparks and swells, hope for a saner tomorrow. We are waiting, while our former lives are upended, up rooted in suspension.

An image that has come to me during these weeks is of autumn leaves tossed up in the air. The leaves are up there, swirling, suspended. They have not landed yet. What the collective result of this pandemic and our collective response to it will be, is not yet known. All is tossed in the air.

As my husband (and main companion in sense making around this unprecedented and historical moment) has pointed out: as we seek to understand what is really going on in the multi-layered, suspended and heightened moment we are now living, there are so many dimensions, agendas and forces at work, it can be near impossible to get a complete picture. What we can do, however, is to look back to say November of last year, and notice all the vectors already at play then. For what we do know of this moment, is that all is heightened, and each of these vectors, these agendas, is now on steroids.

All are seizing this moment is one way or another.

Those whose call it was to become a spiritual teacher or supportive coach, now have a window in which to step up with wisdom to share.

Those interested in confusing the population and disseminating false news, or simply shocking with the latest dramatic news, what a moment.

Those who have long felt our earth needs a pause, here finally a chance to reconsider our trajectory.

Those who are amongst the most decent of humans, ready to simply serve, are showing up with such fervour and courage, we can only bow in appreciation and cheer with the fullest of hearts.

Those whose deepest need was to stop, to pause, and rest, are finding an invitation to do so now.

Those who are keen on mandatory vaccination, are seeing this as their moment.

Those who have been working tirelessly for greater income equality, now their efforts are finding an opening.

Those who have been scheming for more authoritarian regime, this is their moment too.

Those who always knew that gardening was a quiet revolution, now is their time.

Those who see individual freedoms as nuisance, now have a moment to squash these.

Those who have longed for greater collaboration, it is happening.

Those who have always carried care for the whole at the centre of their beings, this too is their moment to act in a heightened way, even if just by staying home, but also in tireless research for treatment of this virus, in care for the sick, in providing essential services, in leading with integrity.

There are many many forces at work, all of their agendas, all of their vectors experiencing and making use of this heightened moment in the course of our human unfolding.

These forces — both those aiming for greater good, beauty and truth, as well as those aiming for the opposites — are on steroids at present. Heightened. Intensified.

And what the outcome will be when we consider all these vectors, all these individual and collective wills and actions, decisions and values — all these leaves thrown up in the air — is not yet decided. We don’t know what the outcome will be. We feel the intensity. We are feeling all the days of the Easter Journey — death, the in-between, and the resurrection — all at play simultaneously.

And perhaps most of all: we are feeling and experiencing the “in between” — the Easter Saturday part of the journey. We don’t know if Easter Sunday will happen. We don’t have the benefit of knowing the future and being reassured by it. We don’t have assurance. It could go either way. Collapse and constriction, or renewal into healing and care for the Whole. Or a mix of all of it.

Held in liminal space, with vectors flying in all directions, this is our moment to encourage the breeze to move those leaves in the direction of greatest goodness, truth and beauty.

This is our moment to encourage trajectories of kindness, forgiveness, sustainability, coherence building, sovereignty and dignity. This is our moment to nurture every strand of connection, insight and care.

This is the undecided, elongated moment wherein the tides could turn, as a whole, one way or the other.

And so, my dear beauty makers, goodness tenders and truth tellers, let us do our best to help the breezes blow in the direction of sanity for this humanity, this planet, and all that lives within and upon it. May resurrection happen. May we find our way to what we have been dreaming, hoping, praying and working for.

The ways to do this are as myriad as we are. For some it may be tending to their children with presence. For others it may be fervent dedicated prayer. For some, gardening. For others, thinking out of the box and helping create meta-systemic change. The paths are many. The potential of resurrection, of a next stage in our humanity to actually feel like Easter Sunday, like the most wondrous spring morning, is with us. May we show up for it.

With all my love,
m

STEP-BY-STEP  I A COVID-19 HEALTH PROTOCOL    

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CORONAVIRUS :  Taking steps for y-our health

This protocol was put together for our families, drawing upon our own best practices and experiences, as well as recommendations from integrative health practitioners, a biochemist and nutraceutical expert, a family doctor, two nurses, and numerous medical articles and research. We sifted through the information with the intention of discerning what made most sense from our vantage point, was doable in our households, effective and safe (keep in mind these doses are the ones we are comfortable with for adults – do your own due diligence, and remember “if a little is good it doesn’t mean a lot is gonna be better/safer, so dosing recs are really crucial”). I am not a medical professional. This is not medical advice. The information is given for educational purposes only, and is not intended to advise, diagnose or prescribe. I share it here in case it can support you in your efforts to navigate this novel virus and your overall health. Please consult your trusted physician regarding COVID-19 treatment, especially if you are pregnant or have comorbidities like diabetes, respiratory diseases, CVD, hypertension, or cancer. Take from this what is relevant for you. Do your own discernment. There is currently no one standard treatment for COVID-19. There is plenty of research that nutraceutical measures that flood the body with compounds to enhance the body’s natural immune response can be helpful in preventing and supporting the treatment of viral infections. I will keep updating our protocol here as we learn more. 

With love, and best wishes,

Miriam 

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To Let Come

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To Let Come

I am not a calendar with
Straight lines etched across my self
And tidy numbers telling me
Which day and month I am
And which page I should next be turning,
Which intentions I must be setting and what should be released

Instead I lay beside the winter coat
Of the hibernating bear
And borrow her slumber for a while

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Befriending the Dark – A Solstice Reflection

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What is it we fear so
This dark time of year?

We cover up the dark with glitter
Lights and noise and stuff and lists
Busy days, excess plastic and wrapping
Good stuff too — food and song and sweet gifts

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Evolving Traditions — Keeping the Spark Alive

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Once upon a time, when my daughter was a wee lassie, I spent a few evenings bent over the sewing machine, stitching together little bags from colourful scraps. Twenty-four bags to mark the journey of Advent for her, a cherished tradition from my childhood in Switzerland that I wanted to pass on. The bags were then filled with “pretty little things” as she would call them, and sometimes a treat (dried mango, chocolate, some nuts). Oh, how she loved this daily gift and preparation toward Christmas! It suited her 4-year old self quite perfectly. Read more

She did it!

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In my home country – Switzerland – on All Soul’s Day – we wander to the cemeteries, and honor the dead. The cemeteries in the small mountain villages are alive with young and old, visiting their loved ones who have travelled on.

This year my grandmother died. I spent a week with her, just before she passed. It was a holy week, I will cherish it for always.
And tonight some words arise as I sit here in Canada, visiting my grandmother on this All Soul’s Day with my thoughts, memories and the heart that knows no distance. May your loved ones who have crossed the threshold join you this season when the veil is thin, the moon just a slice.

She did it

A strong heart, beating for over 840,960,000 breaths,
A sparkle of soul, finding the glisten of humor for over a century,
A keen caring mind, ready for wit and reflection for over one thousand two hundred months,
A heart so merry and kind, pouring out generous love for over a century.

A life full of friendship, tended relations, enfolded in a hearth she helped build,
A long life, complete with grace, hardship, pain and blessings,
Choosing over and over again to surrender to what is,
To see the gift hidden in the furrows of human turmoil.

Hands soft and gentle, reaching out in caress till an hour before departure.
A person ready to leave her earthly garment, so very ready.
But how, when there is no sickness and no accident?
How do you get out of a body, an old and fading body, but one with a strong beating heart?

We ponder together. We laugh and we wonder.
A puzzlement not met before.
We wait. Chat. Sing. Touch.
We rest together in the precious lit up moments of an unknown threshold.

And then. She does it.
A nap turns into a change of breath,
A depth of slumber like no other,
Turns into a release of breath.

She did it!
The first words that come to me as I hear of her death.
She did it. She crossed the threshold, over to the other side of the veil.
She left her body behind, she climbed out and on.

Her heart, her over one hundred year old heart stopped beating,
And freed her soul to travel on.
Bless her heart. It was a grand one.
A truly grand mother was she.

_______________________________

My grandmother had a deep abiding love for Mother Mary. I sang this Ave Maria (by Gounod) at her funeral and share the recording here in the spirit of my grandmother and this all soul’s day.

Ave Maria – sung for my grandmother – August 2019 >>