In the Fullness Thereof

It is an oddly wonderful time of year, September. Some of the garden inhabitants are at their fullest glory, and others have begun their descent back into the earth. Puffs of breeze release yellow leaves to swirl through the air to the ground, a promise of the coming change of season. And my heart is feeling the fullness of this growing season, while my soul is ready to return to the inwardness of the season of reflection.

When I awoke this morning, wrapped in my covers––at one with the blessedly cool air drifting in through open windows––I was filled with the joy and potential of the new day. Five half sun salutations thanked the day for being and the one who is More for the opportunity to be alive in it today.

My soul work all year has been letting go of what has ended or not worked and making room for what might come next. I am learning to do the same in the garden. Why am I so reluctant? Three weeks ago I finally pulled out the cosmos that has not bloomed well this summer, but whose healthy vegetation was taking up space––above ground, certainly, and probably beneath the surface as well. Overnight the denuded antique rose sprouted leaves and now has two small blooms. The Gerbera daisy that hasn't bloomed since June has an opening flower and two more tight buds. The passion flower vine has doubled––perhaps it will yet bloom.

There are butterflies in my garden. Have they always been there, and I didn't notice? Or have they just discovered my habitat? The large ones float from tree to tree, and the small ones from blossom to blossom; all dressed in royal garb. I began noticing the small ones after I harvested the sunflowers and pulled out the cosmos. Could it be we don't notice the small bits of beauty around us when we are focused on the star-power of that which is large in the garden and in our lives?

For the past two decades I have wondered when I was going to start my career; and, as the train rattles down the track at breakneck speed toward 60 years of life, what I have missed by not having done some kind of amazing work. When I was young I thought I would save the world, and now I feel that I have done nothing toward that modest goal. As several of my friends, though, have begun struggling with an inward calling to slow down, but wonder who they will be if not a rock star, I have become grateful for my not-so-big life. I have grown slowly and steadily with no stage to have to jump off of. There has been no one to promote or push me along, but myself. A few years ago, my sister asked me if I had ever thought about having a career. The question both puzzled and angered me. I have made a career of piecing together a life of what is important to me. Was I to feel my life is less than because there is no title (or paycheck) to easily define what I do for those who don't want to listen to the long litany of that and this, which define my life? In Voltaire's Candide, after a long struggle to save the world, the lead character concludes that one must cultivate one’s own garden. (I read that somewhere, I have not read Voltaire--another shortcoming, I suppose.) I have cultivated my own garden--that is my career. I have finally realized that I don't have to do something gigantic to better the world. I can carve out one small thing, and in the one thing, find the universe.

My grape tomatoes have been experiencing blossom end rot. I have learned that it is caused from not enough moisture to release the calcium in the soil. After the rains a couple of weeks ago the tomatoes are healthy again. My tears, too, have brought back health to the blossom of my soul. "There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief...and unspeakable love." (Washington Irving) Why, when we can see how important water is in the garden, do we see our own tears as weakness? Why do we hide from them and hide them from others? Why are we so uncomfortable in the presence of others' tears? Holding one another's tears is, for me, the deepest expression of love. And the beauty is that the deep-felt connection of tears doesn't have to be confined to the kind of love-making shared only with a lover. If we can open our blossom end to experience the fullness of all that love can be, we can have many lovers.

Under the tangle of grape tomato vines, I have three volunteer cantaloupes. I don't think they will mature, but I continue to watch them, and to persist in believing that I might be surprised. As I watered this week, I became fascinated by the fact that the fruit is so far down the vine from the root. I have been accustomed to believing that relationship can only be found at my backdoor. At least for those of us who are not frequent travelers, we find friends at our workplace, our church (which are one and the same for me), perhaps in the cafe we frequent every weekend; but that is the extent of opportunity. This summer I have given in to technology as a way to connect and to stay connected. It was not an easy shift. There seems still to be something regressive about it. I long ago gave in to email as a substitute for putting pen to paper or phone to ear to stay in touch. The truth is, I have never been a good letter-writer, and I don't like to talk on the phone. Email really has increased connectedness with those I cannot see face-to-face regularly. And those between-time connections have made me work harder to look for opportunities to spend time in person.

But this summer I succumbed to facebook, texting, and computer dating. (I had a Glorious day yesterday, by-the-way, with a new friend met on Match.com.) On facebook, I have shared in the lives of friends and relatives who live far away--or at least not in the radius of my living. And I have let people know via texting that they are on my mind in that moment. No response needed; just a quick connection across cyberspace. We really can meet new people and stay in touch with those far down the vine from our root. And, best of all, I have discovered connection through this blog. In the past, this writing has been confined to the journal that lives very close to my root--my heart center. I don't know who reads it, but it has brought new meaning to my writing to send it far from the safety of the bag where my journal lives, to where it just might touch a soul with something that could change a life, save a life, even shift a world.

As this growing season comes to a close, I broke with my habit of leaving the garden to its own devices in my eagerness for fall. I watered in September. And the flowers I thought I didn't care about anymore have rebounded from drought droop. Between the water I provided and the cooler evenings, it appears that there is a second bloom in them. We are so quick to give up on ourselves and our relationships; we don't often give the second bloom a chance. Several large violet plants that I refuse to label as weeds quickly succumbed to the heat back in June and dried up. Rather than pull them out, I cut them off close to the ground. Within days they were back up and have been large and beautiful all summer. Summer is not their bloom time, but the green beauty of their heart-shaped leaves has provided fullness to the garden. Our relationships do not always bloom, but sometimes if we cut our expectation back to the essence, they can maintain solid beauty to fill our lives.

In the fullness thereof.

     And God will continually guide you,
     and satisfy your desire in scorched places,
     and give strength to your bones;
     and you will be like a watered garden,
     and like a spring of water whose waters do not fail.
                                              -Isaiah 58:11