Embracing Mystery

One of my most clear memories of the house at the end of the south bay of Puget Sound, where I spent the first eight years of my life, is of my mother's roses. There were climbing roses that grew up the front porch trellises; and trailing roses wandered over the lattice fence in the back yard. Their beauty fills my head even now, as their presence occupies my memory of childhood. I also have childhood memories of the roses my favorite Aunt Helen, with whom I share a name, and my Uncle Carl coddled, surrounding the back yard at their California home. I have never again lived in a house with a rose bush, much less planted them. The garden I now love, however, has an antique rose bush; planted, the neighbor tells me, by Mary's mother. I calculate it to be in the vicinity of 50 years old. It is one of my rescue projects.

As I have formed, renovated, and rebuilt the gardens around my not-so-big house, I remained without vision for the beds on either side of the front porch until a couple of years ago. Roses. Perfect. Perfectly scary. It seemed like a big investment, for which one should perhaps have an advanced degree and hefty bank account before diving in. Plus I had to first remove the four cone-shaped spruce trees, the four box elder knockoffs, and the two floundering azaleas. I take it one step at a time, not willing to fully commit all at once. First I transplant the azaleas. Then the two smaller spruces by the steps come out and are replaced with Purple Heart and sundrops. I plant a banana tree and elephant ear caladium behind the larger cones at the corners of the house, so when I remove them there will already be a replacement. Those plants help the unloved trees look out-of-place and redundant. The next season I remove them without remorse. Last fall I ripped out one box elder on each side, bringing the banana and caladium into their fullness. This month, with the perennials still underground, and only the pansies and the remaining shrubs to give substance to the beds, I am facing my fear of emptiness head-on. It is commitment time. If I take out the shrubs, I will also have to deal with the holly stumps they are hiding that need much more than me and my shovel to remove. Can I grow roses? It's time to get them in the ground. Now. I sit in the yard and look. I visualize the void. I can't see the roses. I can only see the emptiness. Something is feeling familiar about all of this.

The unknown is mystery. How many times have I wondered at the courage (or stupidity--really there is a fine line) of people who can quit a job without first securing another; or leave friends to go where they are strangers. Who move to a new location just because they want to live there, but with no means of support. Last night my dear friend reveals that she has applied for a job in a state that is her favorite in all the world. I am so proud of her. When we are young(er) we have time to live in places that don't match our heart home. Or at least we have the illusion of time. I no longer have that illusion. It is time. The people I know, Dori and Charly and Marc and Rebecca and me, who know where our heart home is, are lucky. People who can make anyplace their heart home are fortunate, too. Sad are those who know and can't get there. Those who can't embrace the mystery. Those who can't visualize the roses filling the space that must first be emptied.

I walk around my garden this week and look for what is entering the above ground part of their cycles. It finally rains a tiny bit early in the week. The next morning the bluebells are blooming. I didn't plant the bluebells, but I did uncover them from the overgrown ground-engulfing ivy. When the leaves come up with the daffodils, I can never remember just what they are. Another plant that I rescued from the ivy army is a not-quite-domestic peony. It bloomed last year for the first time. One bloom. But even then I didn't see it emerge from the ground. So this week when I see the red shoots, I'm mystified for a few moments. And then I remember, the peony! The buds of the dogwood that were closed tight last week, are beginning to open; their tiny yellow flowers peeping through the loosening bracts. They tell my tale, as I begin to gently loosen the fear that is clenched around my longing to return to heart home; and as I loosen my hold on my fear of roses and the need to first face the empty beds. As I let go of the terror of committing to mystery.

My friend Santi reminds me of a quote attributed to Goethe. "Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Begin it now.” But she knew more of the context, so I look it up on the internet. What I learn is that Goethe probably didn't really write it just as it is quoted. It was more likely the result of a very creative translator. That doesn't bother me. We take what we are given and rework it until is our own. "Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back-- Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth that ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no [person] could have dreamed would have come [their] way. Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Begin it now.”

When I let it be known that I had pushed through the paralysis of fear and committed to a week-long writing workshop (apparently I won't know if I got in until the end of April), I received gifts of encouragement, both material and spiritual. This month I knit a wrap that, because of the way it is constructed--in a twisted loop--I have no idea other than the picture what it will look like when it is finished. But I keep going, trusting that the mystery will unfold as it will. I love watching for things to push through the ground, form buds, open into flower, make their way through the above ground cycle. I love the mystery of not remembering where I have planted things, what has spread while it has been in the dark, what will come up and what won't. The mystery of life, and change, and moving toward the unknown. Why is it that spring is my favorite time in the garden because of the mystery, but I am so afraid of mystery in life?

I dig out the last two shrubs, and last weekend good and strong friends, and owners of a chainsaw, come and remove most of the holly stumps. And there it is, an empty garden. Emptiness can evoke a pessimistic sadness; or it can be a blank canvas, waiting for the artist to see it in its fullness. I sit again and look. Slowly, slowly, I see through the dark to the color and scent of the roses yet to be planted; of the red leaves and pink flowers of the purple heart, still underground; of the broad leaves of the banana tree that will shout from the corner; of the tiny purple violets that will bloom soon. I take Friday off from work and dig up the dirt, amending it with bagged soil and compost. Then I head for the nursery and choose six bareroot roses of different sizes and colors. I do my best to follow the instructions for planting roses. I blanket the bed with mulch. It still doesn't look like much to the naked eye, but it looks like YES! to me. And so I will wait and see what comes.

“Not much can be seen in the dark, but sensed yes.” (Joseph Tany) If we knew exactly how it will all turn out, there would be no mystery. And the joy of discovery would be diminished.