Abundance

As I sat on my deck on a recent evening in the Adirondack chair made for me by my son, with a glass of wine and a bowl of pasta garnished with basil I had reached over and picked from the plant next to the chair, I was overcome with a sense of life in abundance. The birds were singing, the scent of gardenias filled the air, and I had just gotten off the phone with a good friend who honored our friendship by calling in a time of need to talk to someone. Sometimes life is so beautifully full it hurts.

Speaking of gardenias, I have two bushes: one in front next to the driveway, and an enormous one in the back yard. When I was a high school senior my boyfriend, Marc, gave me gardenia corsages for the two formal dances we attended together. If gardenias grow outside of the hothouse in the Pacific Northwest, I don't think I ever saw one. It is not exactly the tropical climate I associate with gardenias. Being given the exotic bloom felt extravagant. However, having the flower right under my nose all evening was a bit too much of a good thing. I get the same sense of guilty, decadent pleasure having them in my yard; shouldn't they be reserved for gardens of the rich and royal? The one in front blooms first and is so full of blooms this year that the leaves are nearly hidden. When I pull into the driveway their cloying scent fills my nostrils. (My route home from work takes me past the Krispy Kreme--same thing!) And when I sit on my deck the fragrance of the one in the back wafts across the yard. Abundance.

I have been honoring my intention to spend time enjoying the garden. I have installed citronella oil lanterns in the shade of the dogwood tree to fend off the mosquitoes and have discovered that the tree branches catch the breeze and keep it a relatively cool place to sit. Yesterday morning, however, I was sitting on the deck talking to my girl child (speaking of loving and being loved in abundance) and observed a fascinating, if stomach-turning, sight. For a full five minutes a Grackle fought to pull what I first thought was a worm but realized was a baby snake out of the ground. She grabbed and pulled then let go, grabbed and pulled a little farther then let go. Over and over. It made me a little nauseated, frankly (I didn't know there were snakes in the middle of my back yard), but I couldn't stop watching.  Mostly  I was afraid she would give up and leave it there.  She finally got it extracted and flew off with the eight-inch baby dangling from her mouth. I wondered what in the world she was going to do with it; it seemed a little large for consumption by a not-very-big bird. Her family was about to feast abundantly.

My garden feels abundantly full of life and bloom this first week in June. It occurs to me that I have never had an established garden before this year; a garden where perennials return each year and grow faster and bigger than the year before. A garden where I can watch for the reappearance of what I know is planted there. The single stalk banana tree I planted last fall returned with an additional eight stalks. They are waist high now, the large leaves catch and hold the raindrops and sparkle with morning dew. I get a surge of abundant fullness every time I walk past it.

Sometimes in the garden (and in life) we get things we don't work or ask for. Weeds, of course, come to mind; and illness. But occasionally there are good things, too. In my first foray into vegetable growing this spring, I planted four grape tomato plants; eight came up--and the extras are not in the same spot as the four I planted. There are also two squash plants. I did not plant them. Perhaps seeds blew from the neighbor's plantings, or a good fairy dropped them in. Unexpected and unexplained abundance. Good things in life have come my way, too; as I am sure they have in yours. Think about it.

But the garden has not evolved without loss. Some plants have died during their season, or not returned the following year. Some have healthy foliage, but don't bloom. And the abundance I enjoy now has required a  willingness to experiment and sometimes fail, to get dirty, to sweat, and yes, shed some blood and tears. In sticking with it, though, I have found a wonderful relationship.

My dear friend reminded me recently that abundant relationships are not always with other people; and relationships with people mirror those with all other aspects of our lives, be it our work, a yoga or writing or music practice,  or a garden. As I struggle with where I "should" be at this stage in my life (e.g. coupled); and as I continue to experience bouts of conflict about what I "want" at this stage in my life (e.g. to be coupled), I share her abundantly life-giving words with you in the hope that they may resonant with some of you as they have with me.

You are growing and blooming and it is not without some ouch. This time is a new time in your life--both in your garden and in your personal soul. It has been a time of pulling up roots,
challenging every childhood belief, every reality versus fantasy of what 50+ is supposed to be like. Digging in the yard, being willing to get dirty, has been the metaphor for the messiness of this part of life.

This is the most intentional time that you have been in deep, capital R relationship with yourself - no wonder there are both wonderful, life-giving, energizing and connecting days; and contradictory times of loneliness. F*** all those people who are coupled; f*** match.com and everyone who tells you to meet someone and try again. Don't rush, my dear friend, keep doing what you are doing. You are connecting with old friends and new, experiencing joy and disappointment over how humans show up sometimes and sometimes don't. I am proud of you, and honored to be your friend.

I have life in abundance. A capital R relationship with another human would just be the icing on the cake; or icing that is chocolate; or dark chocolate; or dark chocolate with fresh raspberries on top... Why do we always think we need something more when we already have so much?

This post is getting long, but I have two more thoughts about abundance that I want to share. I went to the Farmers' Market yesterday, an abundant feast for the eyes. I noted that the progression of vendors has moved from a majority of plant stalls to an explosion of those selling fruits and vegetables. The produce of the fertile soil of North Carolina. It is nearly too much to take in.

In a vivid contrast, I have just finished reading Stones Into Schools, by Greg Mortenson. It is the follow-up book to Three Cups of Tea, about building schools--especially for girls--in Pakistan (the first book) and then Afghanistan. Both books should be required reading for the human race. The practice, from which they rarely stray, of the Central Asia Institute is to start building schools in the poorest, most desolate, all but impossible to get to, forgotten places in the country (arguably on earth). These are places at the end of the road that do not know abundance. Snow covers the ground eight months of the year, cutting them off from the rest of the world and a food supply. What food stores they have for the winter must be accumulated from what is brought in over multi-day trips during the summer on tracks and trails traversed by bone-rattling rugged vehicles, transferred to yaks, and finally brought the last miles over treacherous terrain on foot. When a four room school is built to provide, for the first time, life-changing education, the residents rejoice in the abundance that has come their way.

The relativity of Life in Abundance.