What Remains

“Last Summer in the Garden”
by Benjamin Alire Sáenz

I am remembering how I used to wake in the mornings
   and step out
Into my backyard, coffee cup in hand.
I am remembering how
I would wander around in a sleepy stupor,
   the cool of the morning grass

On my bare feet, the awe of the new day
   making me forget about

The word exile. I keep dreaming the desert willow,
   the sweet acacia,

The honey mesquite, the purple sage,
   the cow’s tongue cactus that had

Become as tall as a tree.

                                         God, I loved that garden, but

It’s no longer mine. It’s not true to say it’s gone.
It’s just that
I can’t set foot on it any longer. It’s cruel,
   this business of exile...


                                I can never go back to that house

Where I lived for so many years... I was

The god of the garden. I was the planter,
   the giver and taker of life.

This year, in early June, the front yard was
   a blanket of orange blossoms

And the paloverdes were exploding
   in yellow blooms that were

As fragile and tender as my boyhood.
I was not there to see the garden
In its fullness, though I saw the entire scene
   as a photograph
I stole from my memory...

                     I have spent my last summer in the garden...
But when we leave the garden,
   always we carry something with us,

A fragment of our innocent selves.
There is a freedom in living

Somewhere east of Eden. We all want to taste
   the fruit from the tree
Of knowledge. I’m thinking that, in the end, Adam and Eve

Made their peace with exile.

                       And I can make my peace with mine.


 ❧ ❧ ❧

This poem has haunted me for the past year and a half, as I anticipated leaving my garden. Then it seemed a long way off; but I knew deep down that it wasn't. Today I have less than four days left until the garden is no longer mine. And then I will begin making my peace with exile. Today, though, I am thinking about what remains. I am thinking about what I will carry with me.

When I began the resurrection of Mary Minges' garden, I knew nothing of gardening. I knew plenty about heartache, though, and I was to discover that gardening, restoration, and writing can heal heartache. From the first step of restoring the garden﹣pulling bag upon bag of English ivy﹣I began my education, with the garden as teacher. Here are some of the lessons I have learned about gardening and life over the last five years.


Lessons from the Garden

Ivy smothers. Ripping it out is empowering, and bulbs you didn’t know were there are set free to bloom again.

Things die. Plants, love, friendship. We aren’t always ready. We can’t stop it.

The soil can be replanted. It’s usually best to amend it first. And that takes work; stinky work sometimes. Manure smells.

Before replanting in a spot where something died, let the ground lie fallow. Give it time to soak up the nutrients you amended it with.

It’s fun, maybe even essential, when replanting an area, to try something new. If a plant didn’t work in the spot, don’t plant the same old thing.

Don’t look too far ahead, it’s overwhelming. Just begin it. Pick one little corner of the overgrown, neglected garden; grab one vine and pull. Then one more. One step at time usually gets the job done. If you want to build a patio, but can’t imagine that you will be able to, just start it. Envision the completed project and pick up your shovel. You don’t have to be able to imagine every step along the journey.

If something beautiful strikes your fancy, but you don’t really know what you will do with it, get it! Church windows can always be planted in the garden. Even croquet stakes can be repurposed. You won’t be disappointed.

You have to pull the dying annuals, even if they still look pretty good, so you can plant the new season ones. Ripping up what is okay, but not great, is emotionally hard; do it anyway.

You don’t always know right off what to plant in an area. You can either stick something in and hope it’s the right thing, or you can wait and watch for a vision to come. It will.

If you pick the wrong thing for a spot, it’s never too late to remove it and try again. If the roots have taken hold, though, it doesn’t come out easily.

If you cut off the top of an unwanted holly bush, but don’t dig out the roots (which may require a chain saw), the bush will keep sprouting back. You will spend a lot of time, year after year, clipping unwanted sprouts. Best to just dig deep and get it out.

Pulling weeds, pulling expiring annuals and perennials, removing dead leaves is freeing.  Making space for what’s to come.

If you want a banana tree, plant a banana tree. Don’t listen to the naysayers. Listen to your own heart. You can hear it best.

One woman’s weeds are another woman’s love. Violets. Passion flower. Those purple things that bloom when everything else is done. Don’t reject them just because they refuse to stay in the box.

You can’t just sit back and watch, and expect the garden to flourish. You have take care of it.

If you feed the birds, they will come. All you need is a feeder. Or a large square coffee table with cushions around it.

Don’t just do something, sit there. Don’t just plant or weed and walk away. Stay there. Sit a spell. Listen. Examine. Keep your camera in your pocket.

When it’s time to leave the garden, know that you have done a wonderful thing. You planted a little corner of beauty in the world. You have nourished the child and loved it well, and now it’s time to let it go.

                              ❧ ❧ ❧

Gardens are therapists, they heal your soul.
Gardens are doctors, they mend your heart.
Gardens are good friends, they are a mirror of your being.
Gardens are teachers, they expand your knowledge.
Gardens are ministers, they show you the One Who is More.
Gardens are children, they reflect your nurturing.
Gardens love you back.

What remains is thousands of photographs; one hundred blog posts; a hundred thousand words; a restored garden; and me.

That's All She Grilled

I’m racking up the “last times” on a daily basis now. For a year they have been seasonal: last unbearably hot summer (hooray), last time to clean out the summer garden, last year-end exhaustion at work, last snowfall in the cemetery (that one turned out to be two winters ago, when I didn’t know it was the last one), last fire in the fireplace, last thrill of the early spring garden emergence followed by the opening of the summer flowers (yes, there will be other gardens, but not just like this one). The last

dinner with friends around my coffee table in the hearth room (that one hurts), last bluebells and spring star flower. Last grape tomatoes (that may turn out not to be true, there are some green ones with a week and a half to go, along with several tiny yellow squash that may or may not mature in time for me). Last summer annual planting (for the new owners). Was Saturday the last time I will rise early to lean on a gravestone as the full moon makes way for sunrise that splits the sky as the new day dawns? Was the thunderstorm a few days ago, the last one from my bedroom under the eaves?

On and on it goes, like a reverse bucket list; not a pail full of things I hope to empty as I accomplish them for the first time, but one that I am filling with things to which I have grown accustomed and am experiencing for the last time.

I have probably mentioned the blueberry scone I have purchased at The Fresh Market every week for the past 12 years, to enjoy with my weekly cafe coffee and journaling

time. Every week, that is, except for the several months they stopped carrying them because "they weren't rising right." During that year, I learned to make them myself and got a pretty close clone; but I was glad when they suddenly returned. Two weeks ago TFM brought in an imposter, a small puff thing. The FM scone was on my list of things I knew I was going to have to say goodbye to. But I expected to know it was the last one.

Last weekend I traveled to Asheville to visit my family. I stopped at Montreat campground and walked back into #29, my favorite campsite, for the last time. I went on to Max, Kristy, and Nicholas' lovely site on the side of a mountain outside of Weaverville. I hope I will visit their home again, but I will arrive by plane and it will be a major vacation.

Nearly 6-year-old Max, who was a newborn when I first met him there, read to me the book I made him for Christmas. He is a much- improved baseball and soccer player than he was just a year ago. He is waiting for his baby brother to be born. As am I, before I head west. Maybe I will return to #29 someday; maybe Max will join me there, perhaps Ethan, too--which was always my plan in the years I camped at Montreat. Some plans don't bear fruit.

Friday evening I fire up the grill I got five years ago when I moved into the house at 609 Edmund Street. One person doesn’t use much propane (or at least I don't), and it still has the original tank. Twelve days from moving out, I’m cleaning out the freezer and put the last burger on the grill. Just as it finishes cooking, the tank runs out of gas. (I didn’t make that up.) A few weeks ago the spring on my eight-year-old clippers broke when it got caught in my well-used leather glove, tearing a small hole; and last week, as I trimmed a tree through my upstairs window, the pruners got stuck in full extension. I neither asked for nor needed affirmation for my journey, but apparently the Universe wants to make darn sure I know it's the right thing. Maybe the One Who is More knows as the time draws ever nearer that I have to say goodbye to my friends as I extend my self, I might doubt my decision.

I attended the memorial service of a dear man yesterday, whose 58-year-old body caved to a mean-spirited cancer in just a few short months. Nothing can claim John's spirit, however, as evidenced by the large gathering of those he touched. Going to the ends of earth to show their love--though their 33 years of commitment outlasted 58% of heterosexual marriages with or without the formality of societal-sanctioned marriage--John and Steve proclaimed their commitment first in a private ceremony, then within the love of their faith community when Pullen Baptist Church voted to perform same-gender unions. Later they traveled to Vermont for a civil union, and more recently to California finally to be married. I’m almost sorry John lived to see what must have been a huge sadness as the majority of North Carolina voters told them their love was not worthy or real. This quote has been in my blog notes for a long time, I don't know who said it, but it makes me aware of Steve's life going forward--of all our lives really, as we say goodbye to that which we have loved-- “dying doesn’t end the story; it transforms it.”

Sometimes we don't know we are experiencing something for the last time. Simple things like a favorite pastry to which we have grown accustomed, or snow in the cemetery. Like an ordinary dinner with the great love of your life just before you learn the body of one is harboring a killer. Maybe it's easier when we don't know. And maybe it's a lesson in the importance of really savoring in the moment all the experiences that bring us joy. I am not taking for granted this beautiful May morning outdoors at the cafe, a cool breeze bringing whispering movement to the trees; a jet cutting through the sky before disappearing into the wild blue yonder carrying passengers on some adventure, its stream mimicking the wisps of clouds. I am not ignoring the curly-haired toddler being introduced to another patron's Great Dane, Stella. I let the Little Brown Bird take a rather large chunk of my Harris Teeter scone (which is the right shape and texture, but tastes a little like a pop-tart), just so I can smile at its delight in the unexpected good fortune.

This one day, this one experience, this one life. It's what we have for sure.

"Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,
which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished."
-Mary Oliver

Venturing Boldly: A Love Story

I have not fully understood the impact, if any, of the Occupy movement, but I admire the passion of those who believe it is a way for their voice to be heard. I pass the Occupy Raleigh island encampment on Hillsborough Street this week, as I have twice every weekday through the fall and the winter and the spring, and observe that they have folded their tents that provided shelter, piled up the remaining wood crates that fueled their fires against the cold over the winter, abandoned the cut logs they sat around the fire on, locked up the port-a-potties, and gone home. I am amazed by the passion that kept them there for so many months. They ventured out of whatever places they had been holed up in, and lived out loud.

On Tuesday, North Carolina passed a constitutional amendment that states for the record that all people are not created equal; that all people do not have the right to pursue happiness−at least not in a legal sense. In short, there is only one way to be. The love and marriages some North Carolinians might have if it were allowed, would make, apparently, a mockery of those of other North Carolinians; and the majority of voters are afraid of what that might mean for their own marriages. I guess. I don’t understand that; but the passions on both sides of the issue have flowed liberally for the past many months. People who had been minding their own lives, ventured out to speak passionately for the lives of others, and what should or should not be legal under the constitution. And that speaking out, that dialogue−even when it sounds more like the rant of crazy people−is what changes the world; eventually for the better, but not today. Today we are a little bit worse off, but love and justice will prevail. It just takes such a long time.

For the past five years, my passion has been my garden. I have dug into the depths of the earth. I have pulled weeds and pruned the overgrowth. I have rescued plants buried under ivy and returned them to the light. I have hauled bricks and flagstone and stones, many of which I also found buried, relicts of a previous life. I have planted new life. I have watched things grow; and I have watched some die, either because their time had come or because they didn’t receive the nutrients they needed to thrive. I have taken pictures and seen in the photos on my computer what was not evident to the naked eye. I have discovered the joy of watching and waiting. I have hurt, and I have healed with the garden’s help. I have written about my garden and the lessons learned from it, and in that I have uncovered new passion in myself. In writing, I begin to find out what I know, and give it a voice. I have shared my garden and my home with friends. I have loved passionately.

When I bought my house, and its overgrown gardens, I had no idea of the venture I was about to embark on. I wasn’t looking to become a gardener. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. In fact, I believe had I gone looking for some particular place, I never would have found this place. It found me. And now I find myself ready for a new venture. But this time I am going to a particular place. Home. Though it has been 35 years since I left the Pacific Northwest, it has never ceased to be the place I love with unequaled passion. The Northwest is the love story of my life and it is calling me home.

I have known for many months this time was coming, and I was not ready until now to write here about it. And it still feels like a bold venture to say it out loud. It makes it real. Remember my One Little Word from the beginning of the year? “Venture.” My word is venture. So, in 2-½ weeks I will leave my home and garden. After some time with dear friend Laura, Smudge the Cat and I will leave Raleigh on June 24 and head into a bold new venture.

Leaving friends, who have made a valued place for me in their lives, is the hardest part. There will be another home; there will be another garden. Yes, there will be other friends. But friends are not replaced; only added to. When one leaves a place, they leave also that which has been their heart. I can’t even talk about that yet. There is much that I will miss about North Carolina, and there is much that I won’t. I will save both for another post.

Pico Iyer said, “I left one kind of home to find another, to discover what resided in me and where I resided most fully.” My friend, Charly, who returned to her native Colorado a few years ago, said, “I returned to who I am and more.” I think I was most fully alive in Washington, with its “verdant forests green, caressed by silvery stream,” (the Washington State song); and of course, its snow-capped mountains. Washington is what the color green smells like. Blue comes into its fullness in the sky and water there. But I was barely an adult when I left. I am different now. The venture, what I look forward to, is rediscovering−or perhaps discovering for the first time−who I am and can be in my heart home.

Venturing boldly. Finding what you are passionate about and living it. Isn’t that what it means to fully be alive? Isn’t that what it means to love?

don’t ask yourself what the
world needs; ask yourself
what makes you come alive.
and then go and do that.
because what the world
needs is people who have
come alive.
    -howard thurman

Winding Down, Gearing Up

On my way to the Cafe Saturday, I take a self-directed detour around the line-up of cars down Peace Street waiting to get into the Broughton High School parking lot for some year-end event. On the way back home, I wend my way through Mordecai to avoid the Peace Street traffic arriving for graduation at Peace College.

All across the country this month, and perhaps around the world, young people are winding down their high school years or their college years, and gearing up for whatever might be coming in the next phase of their journey. And loved ones are coming to witness the rituals that will usher them from one place to the next. Witnesses are important to our transitions. I am grateful for mine, and for the honor of being witness to their movements.

Transitions happen in the garden, too. Right now the spring garden is winding down and the summer garden is gearing up. The pansies and snapdragons are faded and dried up, early this year thanks to no April rain. Their passing makes space for the vinca, impatiens, zinnias, and (my newly discovered summer annual) gomphrena. The iris is nearing its end and the Mexican petunia and black-eyed Susans are greening and growing toward putting out their bloom. The azaleas are done, the hydrangeas are full of buds--the first one opening in my garden this week. The rain this weekend will speed it all on their way.

I read about winding down and gearing up over my Saturday coffee and scone. Julia Cameron (Walking in This World) says the reason we have such a hard time starting new projects is not because we don't have energy, or a clear vision of the project, or too many ideas; it's because we have things we haven't finished. Finishing almost anything--finally mending the snagged thread in my top and sewing the loose hook on my skirt, cleaning the shower scum that has been nagging me, getting the pictures in my i-photo file organized (not yet), mowing the lawn, finishing the April One Little Word before I try to start May--creates both order in our environment and inner order. Finishing something says, "Now start something." I think I have always thought of that as stalling: suddenly, when I am trying to begin a project, nothing seems more important than cleaning the toilet. But how can I write a book if I can't finish my mending? Maybe the toilet really is sapping my creative energy. There is an sequence to everything, perhaps you have to wind down before you can gear up. So if you are having trouble starting something, try starting with finishing something. "A body in motion remains in motion."

The super moon is not visible in Raleigh last night--cloud cover. But Friday night, when I am up late enjoying First Friday with friends and then can't get to sleep, I sit on my window seat in my bedroom under the eaves and look out the open window at the moon over my neighborhood. It is completely silent,

the birds are sleeping, no cars are swishing down the street, no sirens split the humid air, and the nearly full moon hangs above the trees with its entourage of stars. This morning there is a photo from dear Wynne of the super moon that she and Emma observed from my childhood bedroom window last night. My mom said it was too blinding to look at. (Sometimes we have to look at things, even though it hurts our eyes, or our heart.)

Yesterday Wynne also sent a picture of my mother's garden after the rain; and I took one of mine. Spring is gearing up in the Pacific Northwest, and it's winding down in the southeast. Students are graduating--leaving behind a significant part of their journey, and moving into the next one. I am winding down and gearing up, too. More on that next week. Stay tuned.

No-Freddie Friday

I have not eaten at the Golden Arches in decades--well, except for the time I got an Egg McMuffin craving a couple of years ago. I also haven't been drinking coffee on weekdays for the past many weeks. I lost my travel mug; then I just got tired of taking time to make it with the time-hog French press; then I got the Kona Beans-of-the-Week at Fresh Market, and didn't like it. Now, understand that I am a coffee snob. I don't drink Folgers and I don't drink coffee from large metal pots. But I once saw a "We serve Seattle's Best" sign in the window of the McDonald's I pass on my way to work. Wednesday morning I head for work earlier than my usual early, and I really want to enjoy a cup of java at my desk in the solitude before the rest of staff arrives. And I don't want to pay $3.62 for it at the over-roasted Starbucks I also pass. What the heck, I think, for a buck it's worth a try. Can they really mess up SB coffee?

As it turns out, the coffee's really quite acceptable. But the real treasure is Freddie at the pick-up window. A young Hispanic man, Freddie has a smile beneath twinkling eyes that lights the world one person at a time. "Good morning! Have a wonderful day! See you tomorrow morning, Miss!" Okay, for Freddie (and coffee), I do return on Thursday. And Friday. But Friday he isn't at the window. The young woman at his post is perfectly nice. But she is not Freddie. I am disappointed. Is the coffee not quite as good on Friday?

For a person who likes rearranging furniture and moving to new dwellings and planting new things in the garden and adventure in general, I do like my favorite things. And I don't like it when they disappear from view.

For about twelve years, I have purchased a blueberry scone from The Fresh Market to enjoy each weekend with coffee and my journal at this or that coffee shop. About three years ago, when the scones were inexplicably removed from the shelf for nearly year, I was a lost and angry soul. "They weren't rising right," was the response to my complaint. "They were perfect," I snarled. I searched out and tried other scones: the Cowpie at Starbucks, the Pop-tart at Harris Teeter, the Doughboy at Whole Foods. Dear Friend Dori (who also disappeared from my view a year ago) joined me in scouting. I discovered they served the very same scone at the coffee shop in Salem, VA where Emma was in college. And at O'Hare airport. Both inconvenient. Finally, turning to All Recipes.com and other web sites, and armed with the ingredient label from my last FM jewel, I set up a research and test center in my kitchen. After weeks of experimentation, I finally got it pretty darn close. Then, out of the blue, the scone returned--in its original form. I was ecstatic!

Thursday I make my usual trek to Fresh Market to pick up the two scones held for me each week, and WHAT IS THIS?, they have changed the scone! New vendor I am told. Not good, I respond. So. Not. Okay. I am trying it this morning. And declaring it "Not Okay." It doesn't taste bad, though it is pretty blueberry deprived; but it's too chewy, too small, too puffy, too not the "right" one.

My old weekend journaling place was the Bear Rock Cafe, first the one in Cary's Saltbox Village, and later the one at Crossroads. After I moved, it was too far to drive, so I switched to Cafe Carolina. But I still miss the fireplace, the fake rustic ambiance, and the ability to hide in a corner at Bear Rock. It pops into my head once in a while, and my thoughts wax sentimental. I find myself at the shopping center yesterday, and needing lunch. I decide to indulge my nostalgia at BR. I drive up. "Yopops," the sign over the door announces.

In the garden, a favorite, the Balloon Flower, didn't bloom last year. I missed it. The plant is up this year. So far there is no sign of bloom. The dove whines "hoo hoo hoo" over and over and over as I lie in bed each morning. Give it a rest I think; the girls don't want you today. Perhaps I would miss him if he weren't there. But a couple of times a week, the dove stops for a moment and gives up its space on the sound waves to the owl that calls "Whoo whoot who-whooo." Twice. That's it. I want more.

I am cleaning out books this week and run across one my dad gave my Emma for her fifth birthday. It is inscribed with his dear and distinctively-Daddy printed hand-writing. Seeing it is a treasure. Emma turned 28 this week. Her papa has been gone for almost 17 years.

Things die. New things take their place. Piling up, one on top of another. The sunrise is beautiful, and fleeting. The dragon fly and its shadow paints a picture on a stone in the garden, then flits off. Everything leaves, making room for the next thing waiting in line to take its place. Even the Seattle's Best Coffee logo has changed (not for the Best, in my opinion). Always. Moving. Forward. I want my scone back. I guess I will dig out my recipe. Or maybe it's a sign; time for a new adventure for me. And I think I will write Freddie a hand-written note tomorrow to exchange for the coffee and smile he hands me.

“Life’s irrefutable forward motion...I was raking leaves one day when I felt such a vast chasm of what was gone that I had to stop and sit down...All this raw material, from new shoots to compost in what seemed a single breath…. I was raking dead leaves in the shelter of my garden while the bulbs, patient and thoughtless, waited to be planted. It seemed obscene.... How to live in a world where loss, some of it unbearable, is as common as dust or moonlight.” (Gail Caldwell, Let’s Take the Long Way Home)

Transplanting the Foxglove

The foxglove, which remains above ground through the winter, resurrected this spring into a robust doubled-in-size specimen of good health. As did the weeping Japanese maple I planted behind it the spring after I put the foxglove in the ground. It is no longer a good home for the foxglove. There won't be room for the stalk. So last Sunday I move it to an empty space across the flagstone path. I also transplant one of the many ostrich fern babies--one that popped up under the now-enormous Autumn Brilliance fern. And then there is the heart-leaf bergenia. Another above ground winterer in my garden. It has not bloomed since I planted it, but this spring it has birthed a new plant. I keep thinking maybe this year it will bloom. I don't know what to do with it; so I let it be.

Monday morning the foxglove sprawls limply on the ground, its leaves like lettuce that stayed in the refrigerator drawer for too many weeks. I've killed it, I think, and it was so beautiful. The hole wasn't deep enough or wide enough; the dirt too hard; I didn't add enough compost. I didn't take enough time to prepare the soil to receive it. I must have done something wrong. I am sad. The fern, on the other hand, looks like it has come fresh from the beauty parlor; not a hair out of place. Tuesday, Wednesday: limp foxglove, unfazed fern. But then, slowly slowly, the foxglove starts to perk up. I keep watering it and talking to it. Encouraging it to come back in its own time. Being patient with it. And it does. Today, except for a few leaves on the bottom, it is itself again. Hopefully a happier, healthier self, with room to stretch. But I will have to wait some more to know that.

I have been reading the blog of one of last summer's writing camp classmates. Her husband is undergoing a stem cell transplant. The ultimate transplant. With a stem cell transplant the body has to come as close as physically possible to death; then, at the last moment--the exact right time--the new cells are introduced. And then the really hard part starts. Waiting and hoping and praying. Watching her husband wilt down until he is unrecognizable. Then waiting some more to see if the cells will take over his body and learn their new home and find nourishment and bring him to new life.

The fern, the bergenia, the foxglove. Some people move around in their lives with ease, seemingly oblivious to change; knowing how to seek out the nourishment they need to thrive, never missing a beat. Others stay put because the foliage is healthy; and try not to be concerned that there is no bloom. Still others, recognizing an inability to grow and bloom where they are, cautiously take the leap, but transition slowly, finding it difficult to let go of what was and bloom into what is now and next. We leave the place we have filled up, and move on to empty space that is waiting for new life to inhabit it. It takes us longer to find our way and stretch our roots deep into the soil. We are patient with ourselves...or try to be.

Yesterday, between rain showers, I plant zinnia and sunflower seeds. In this instant society, I love planting seeds. I push them out of sight and spread the soil back over them. Deferred gratification. In a few days they will sprout, and then will come the challenge of distinguishing them from weeds. It's a good excuse not to pull weeds until I can be sure what I am pulling.

The garden is in its spring prime. The weekend rain, which follows a long dry spell, will revive the flagging pansies. The second round of snapdragons--the tall ones I didn't know I planted--have exploded open. I pick the first snap peas and a few leaves of spinach for my weekly garden pasta. Exciting! My first attempt at both. The roses are beautiful, but for one bush that has no buds. The first purple heart bloom delights me and the last bleeding hearts bid adieu to early spring. Pincushion flower, yarrow, and candytuft add their bling in the sun garden. And mid-week, here is the too-crazy-to-not-believe-in-God passion flower.

My mother and sisters visited last weekend (hence no blog post). We are a family of transplants. My mother left her childhood Tennessee for Washington (with my mid-west father). My sisters and I left the west coast and transplanted ourselves on the east coast. My younger sister and my daughter have left the right and replanted themselves on the left again. My son left the North Carolina Piedmont in favor of the mountains. We are a family of curiosity. What if... Perhaps curiosity is the forerunner of change. I wondered if the foxglove would be happier in a new space, if its roots would find the nourishment it needed to reconnect with the earth in its new home. The only way to know is to give it the chance. Perhaps it will be too traumatized to bloom this year. But I am betting that in the long run, it will thrive.

Shellfish

It might be more appropriate to title a blog post on Easter Sunday something having to do with new life, or resurrection, or something equally Eastery. And crustaceans do not apply. But shrimp are not really what's on my mind.

I have frequently referred to, and thought of, myself as selfish. I crave solitude. I love silence. I like solo activities like writing, walking, reading, gardening. I don’t volunteer. I don’t join clubs or book groups. I don’t hesitate to say “no” to invitations, even from friends, when it intrudes on my plans with myself. (I am trying to get better on that last--I need and love my friends.) I feel bad about my selfishness. Both of my sisters and my mother are generous women; what, I wonder, happened to that gene in me? My mother has always put others ahead of herself and her needs. I daresay she has never even honestly asked herself if that is what she needs.

Then, yesterday, I read Julia Cameron’s thoughts on the topic (Walking in this World). "We get our lives wrong because we get our questions wrong. We get our questions wrong because we have been raised in a culture that is punishing to the forms of freedom necessary for artists to flourish. These freedoms are the ones that allow us to be a little less nice so that we can be a little more genuine... It is my considered opinion that most creative people are actually too selfless... 'Selfish enough' gives us the self for self-expression... For an artist, being too virtuous is no virtue at all. It is destructive and counterproductive."

Wow. I have a hard time thinking of myself as an artist or a writer. I do consider myself creative, however. And I know when I don't have time to create, I am out-of-sorts. I can't squeeze it in between life and life's activities. It is life to me. (And maybe someday I can call myself an artist or writer. For now I am grateful to others who name it for me.)

I am so glad there are people in this world whose passions revolve around improving quality of life for other people. They are the heroes of the earth. Can I let it be okay that I am not that selfless? And could I start by not referring to myself with a word I consider a "bad person" word? Not selfish, in touch with my inner self. Sharing myself in a way tuned in to that inner me.

On Maundy Thursday,  at Pullen's evening service, I read the Matthew text about Jesus in the garden at Gethsemane, as I have for several years now. I know that people who have a need to categorize people have figured out what Jesus' Myers Briggs Inventory letters are. It doesn't really matter to me. If he was an introvert, he had highly evolved extrovert skills. If he was an extrovert, he was in tune with his need for solitude. I love this text, Jesus is so human in it. He is angry. He is afraid. He wants his life to go in another way, and he asks that it be so. And he accepts who he is. He asks his friends for "me time." In that moment, he is not there for them, he is taking care of his own needs. Did that make him selfish?

The MT service at Pullen includes foot-washing. Maundy meaning mandate, and Jesus mandating the importance of the symbolic act of foot-washing. I was honored to wash the feet of someone who had until this week, held back from this ritual. He told me later that he was prepared for the gift of washing my feet--the humble servant part--but he was surprised by the pleasure of receiving. I think many of us think it's selfish to enjoy receiving gifts. Begone with that idea, I say. I have suggested to my mother that if she can't bring herself to ask for what she needs, think of the people she is depriving of the opportunity to give. Better, though, to just sit back and allow oneself to be ministered to. And that includes ministering to oneself.

Lent is my season. I recognized that several years ago. I relish the quiet and introspection that the spiritual season asks of us. And I love being in the garden in the cold, when everything in the natural world is happening out of sight. And then slowly and quietly life sneaks back in. If we are dancing about the garden, we miss it. It is when we are quietly watching and waiting that we begin to notice a sprout here, a bud there. A bird song piercing the quiet, and the answering call from a distant roost.

New life happens for me at the end of Lent, again and again. It is, at first glance, coincidental and uncanny. But really it is not. It is my season. It is synchronicity. It is my self in touch with my world.

And now it is Easter. New life. Time to go back out. I wept through a singing of "In the Garden" this morning. Then went out and bought the garden a gift. A calla lily. As it turns out, a calla lily is neither a calla nor a lily. And I am not a shellfish. I am off to the garden. Alleluia!

I come to the garden alone
While the dew is still on the roses
And the voice I hear falling on my ear
The Son of God discloses.

And he walks with me and he talks with me

And he tells me I am his own

And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known.