Three and a half hours spent in the garden alone opens the way to inner peace in a way days alone in the forest can do. Being blessed with suburban living is a double edged sword for me; on one hand I don’t have to worry about deer raiding my garden and on the other I am surrounded by an endless cacophony of human noise.
Human noise I benefit from since it’s trucks and commerce, so who am I to curse the fact that they’re there every day, making this country run despite the dipshit we have in office. So while feeling squeezed on all sides by proximity, it reminds me to count my blessings as there are many.
Rarely is there “nothing” to do in the garden and believe it or not, harvesting isn’t my favorite task in the garden. What I love to do is build compost, like a little gnome of decay, I long to feed the worms and bugs. With compost at the forefront of my thinking, a lawn is not just grass, a trimmed flower is not just stems, everything is potential for my compost and so it must all be harvested.
I did all my cutting and harvesting, keeping an eye on the skies as I did it, becoming more and more convinced that there would be rain despite the forecast saying there would be none. I prefer to do cuttings and compost flips before a good rain, timing my efforts to benefit the most from nature’s movements. And wouldn’t you know it? Not a half hour after I was done with my work the rain poured down even with the sun still shining, turning the yard into a glittering jewel of renewal.
Earth is good. That was my Sunday blessing.
We mused together watching the rain on how blessings are not universally felt, nor is that even possible. I couldn’t claim the rain as a favor to me without acknowledging that it may have ruined an outdoor party that was promised to remain dry. It can’t be just for us but we can be at the right place at the right time to catch what we can from the sky.