Holes in the Universe

Tornadoes in the deep South stab a hole in the universe this week. Such total devastation is unimaginable to me. People who had little, now have less. Time will tell if the holes get filled, or remain a symbol of loss.  I visit the cemetery yesterday to check on the holes left in Raleigh's recent tornado. It is in a varying state of clean-up. Some of the trees and their holes are gone, no remnant of loss there. Others await stump grinding; and the Moore family's oak tree still has a huge trunk to be removed. I try to age the tree, but the saw blade scars make ring counting impossible for the uninitiated. It is nearly 50 inches in diameter. According to the internet, that could put it at 200 years, give or take a couple dozen. No hole will be left in the cemetery. Soon no one will remember that there ever was one. The hole in the gardenia in my garden, where I removed the shrub it once tangoed with, will take longer to fill in. People with big equipment make faster work of holes than nature does.

There is a hole in my meniscus. A flap tear, to be more accurate. It will soon be a hole. Surgery will remove the damaged part; but since there are no blood vessels, it can't heal itself, or be surgically healed. There will always be a hole there. It may give me problems in the future, perhaps in the form of arthritis;  but I will deal with that when the time comes. Meanwhile, hopefully, I will be able to resume pain-free activity, and for now forget the fact that I am hurtling toward old age.

Holes in relationships plague me always. I guess that is the price we pay for love. Two of my friends are moving west at the end of the month--without me, of all things. They will leave a hole in my universe. But thanks to the internet, perhaps they will not be so distant. Some people I see everyday, or who live close by, are farther away. One of my co-workers leaves at the end of the month, as well. Hooray for the Merry Month of May. People with a stronger will than mine to move on make short work of relationship loss; perhaps they have bigger equipment. I will grieve until there is no longer a point. And then, do doubt, I will grieve some more.

I clean up the garden yesterday--cutting or pulling some of the collapsed bulb leaves and tying up others; pulling weeds. It leaves empty space. It's not always a bad thing, empty space. It provides a chance to look at what's left and to dream about how to fill the spaces; or even to decide to leave them empty for a while. I find myself watching for natural holes, looking for space for something new; thinking about what is missing, both in the garden and in my life. And I realize that sometimes it is necessary to not just wait for holes to open up naturally and be made obvious to me, but to watch closely for them and even to cut out the unhealthy and create holes, to give that which is good space to expand or in which to plant something new.

The first two years in my garden were spent pulling English ivy by the garbage bag full. Bag upon bag upon bag. It left a lot of holes that I have been filling bit-by-bit ever since. The exercise helped heal my own holes, that I have also filled bit-by-bit during these years with the garden.

Five of my six roses are growing and budding. One is not. I am waiting to see what is to become of it; but I think it will eventually open up a hole. Perhaps it wasn't healthy to begin with, or was planted in the wrong soil or in the wrong light. Perhaps it just needs to be transplanted. Sometimes things that seem like a good thing initially turn out to be not-so-much. Trying to hang on to them beyond their natural lifetime is usually not a good idea. Being human, we have a tendency to forget that.

On the other hand, some plants are slow to come into their own. The peony in my side garden has six promising buds. Last year there was only one. The passion flower on the fence is covered in buds. Last year I replaced one that didn't come up from the previous year; and it did not bloom in its first season. Some of the longest relationships in my life have evolved at a snail's pace. And some that burst into bloom quickly had a short life span. Learning when to create a hole and when to wait patiently or to find new soil for the old takes years of practice, and an openness to the imperfection of it all.

The birds they sang
at the break of day
Start again
I heard them say
Don't dwell on what
has passed away
or what is yet to be...


Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.

(Leonard Cohen, Anthem)