Bridge over stagnant water

My bridge is coming together. Today, Dan and I put the supporting planks around the posts and amazingly, it looks like a bridge.

I have spent considerable time standing out in my garden, just looking, trying to see where the path will go. The most obvious path is often the least interesting. Straight paths are easy to visualize but they lack imagination, drama and that elusive design element, tension.

Sometimes, I see a path with curves and sometimes I see one with turns. Sometimes I see a path with stairs at the end, leading to the pergola and other times I see an evergreen hedge with stepping stones crossing between.

There are infinite possibilities. Connecting disparate elements such as pond, pergola, house and outer garden, is a complicated matter and wonderfully exciting.

So far, I've penciled in a "white garden" for immediately beyond the patio and I know that parts of the path will be stone and lumber, in a repeating rhythm.

Rhythm, tension, drama. Twists, turns and crooked little paths.

All parts of my garden. All parts of my life.

Saturday Chores

I have been thinking about building a bridge in my garden. And I agree with Ann Lamott who says that in writing, like life, you start where you are. And so, despite awkward angles and the lack of expertise, I have my posts firming in some god-forsaken miry substance called "Quikcrete". This is a lot like some frostings I've made for cakes..the longer it is exposed to air, the cruster it becomes, finally becoming something so dense and thick that I believe it is what scientists refer to when they talk about black holes.

I know my husband will arrive home and sigh the sigh that only an engineer -- one who is obsessed with nuisances such as measuring correctly and leveling, can sigh. He will shake his head and smile his wry smile which translates into, "I am so not going to fix that railing when it busts under your weight."

Still, I am pressing forward with the task. I have been thinking about it for too long and Easter Weekend seems to be the perfect weekend for building such as a project -- a bridge that connects things, which I imagine what Easter is suppose to be about really.

Which brings me to my favorite tradition...reading David Sedaris' essay on Easter in his book "Me Talk Pretty One Day". I have requested the CD version just so I can listen to him read it himself and I know that I'll do what I do everytime I hear it - convulse in laughter at his poetic and righteous discussion about how difficult it is -- nearly crazy, realy -- to try to make sense out of this confusion of a holiday.

I can't imagine having Easter and not being in or around a garden. Today, I started the weekly chores that will dominate my free time for the spring and summer: Mowing for at least 30 minutes at day, cleaning out the beds, removing all the leftover leaves and twigs from the previous season. I always feel like I'm covering with a shroud when I close up the black bag with all of last year's waste.

No aromatherapy, no sensation can rivel what it feels like to mow. The scent of fresh grass mix with the acrid scent of a mower, the beauty of a freshly cut lawn when the seasons flowers nod in approval. There is something absurdly pleasing about seeing the grass cut beneath the mower. This is truly a "type A's" gig - seeing something get done right before your eyes! If ever I have a day where I feel nothing is accomplished, I hop on the mower and presto! I can sense that I've made progess somewhere.

Thomas Moore's book "The Soul's Religion" is my constant companion these days and I agree wholeheartedly with the author that there is no more spiritual exercise than the tending of one's garden. I cannot imagine how to tend one's soul without one. No temple, church can bring me closer to the sense of some Great Spirit than being in my garden, gently -- or not so gently -- creating a sacred space.

My awkward bridge, the paths that are jumbly-crumbly, the constant need for nurture and reflection are all components that speak to my heart in ways that bypass my simple, foggy mind. Moving dirt, wrestling with a lumpy rock is more prayerful at times than anything I've ever done in any church. It's sweaty, gritty, windy and exhausting. I love it.

Bridges in Tulsa County. 

Rainy Thursday in the Garden

I awakened this morning to rain, rain and more rain. The wisteria is now in full bloom over the pergola, I'll take pics later and post. Is there anything more magnificent than wisteria after a spring rain? I think not.

I've been pondering some things I've been observing. I'm saddened by some recent posts from a former church friend (former church, former friend) regarding church and such truck.

Having grown up in a fundamentalist system, I look back on that time much like a prisoner from WWII shared about his experience when he returned to the prison in which he lived for several years. He said that the bars were weaker than he thought they would be, and the space - -though small -- seemed infantile and silly, like it couldn't hold him at all. Why had he ever been so afraid of this place?

The reason is is that fear is the real enemy, not really people, or ideas or systems. As I read the postings (and yeah, I'm too big a chicken to post ON their sites, so I'll just comment here).

I recently made a list of what I believe my personal theology is. I didn't take this lightly as I do believe I am a good student of scripture -- both bible and other ancient texts -- and I do and have done some research in these areas. There is never an end to learning and there are always new truths that emerge as we are ready for them and can accept them, so I don't think any of us can say "ta dah, I'm DONE". I may post what I believe my personal theology is in a later post -- I'm still ruminating on a couple of the items. You'll be disappointed, it's not long and it's not profound.

I have decided that I want to be a part of a community of believer that defines itself by what IT DOES BELIEVE and not what it DOES NOT BELIEVE. I want to be a part of a community that defines itself by WHAT IT IS, not by what it is NOT.

I also will comment here on what I believe is the real culprit of believers being what we are called to be in any society -- and that is the ridiculous arguments, like those being pursued by some of my congregation, at the risk of so many other important issues.

For example, I know that in a recent headline story, a member of this church killed her husband. Isn't that something we should be discussing? Does anybody care?

And, as I've shared before, this is National Child Abuse Month? And I live in Oklahoma, one of the most tragic of all states -- more abuse takes place here than in many other states -- a child is reportedly abused every 38 minutes. Shouldn't be be talking about that?

Or what about the issue that every leader of every religious movement talks a great deal about -- poverty. Shouldn't we be discussing that?

Or is that just fodder for celebrities?

I think not. I think that these issues are the very reason that so many of us get bogged down in petty arguments over music, worship style and rot such as that. It's that if we ever put down our battle gear and looked around we'd have to realize just how irrelevant we are to a society in need of care and nurturing.

We'd then have to evaluate ourselves, get really deep and dirty, and figure out what we believe about these things. And these are not easy to decide. Not easy 1 -2 -3 answers and not easy to reveal to ourselves about what we REALLY REALLY believe.

It's almost like we rely on these other simpleton issues to serve as a shield, to keep us out of the discussions and solutions that could be so impactful to a world in need.

Which is exactly the point I think. If we ever got really serious about God and faith, we'd have to peer deep down in our cavernous souls and come up with some real arguments for ourselves and what we think we believe.

But most of us aren't willing to do that. While greater issues continue to war at the core of our society, we are content in discussing pianos and church buildings.

May God have mercy on all of us. We are, above all, the most to be pitied.

Parenting, Prom and Promise

I'm a bit woozy from an all day Saturday blitz as my kids did that cultural rite of passage - The Prom.

I say "The Prom" (capital "t" and capital "p") because it is really that -- a major event in a kid's life where they don grown up, easter egg colored clothes and stay out all out night, eat a lot of food and hang out with friends in ways that I probably don't even want to know about.

You'd think that a society as advanced as we like to think we are could come up with a better way to mark a kid's passage into adulthood than corsages and late night breakfasts.

But, as a society, we're pretty pathetic in the parenting department.

April is National Child Abuse Month and parenting is heavy on my mind. Mainly because my own kids are showing the fruit of our own parenting experiement and because I've recently made a commitment to assist others in their parenting.

A disclaimer here is in order. I don't believe that I'm a "great" parent, nor do I believe I have all the answers. Most days, I have barely enough. And that, I think, is the point. Most of us do the best we can with a few tools that we have lying around the house.

I think parenting is hard stuff. It is much more complex of a relationship than finding a mate or living with another person. The reason that it is so hard is that you simply must get yourself out of the equation to be any good at it.

I feel strongly that my kids have their own experiences with their lives and so I struggle to find that tenuous balance between guidance and control. By the time a kid is a teenager, it is more like guiding a luge down a mountain than taking a sled up a slope -- you really are just holding on the edges, hoping the direction you are going will get you-- and them -- to the point where they need to be.

And so, because I believe that, I'm less apt to try to impress my kids -- or their friends, or more importantly, their friends' parents -- with elaborate plans for these rites of passages. I let my kids pick out their own clothes, something that they've been doing well for a number of years. I offer some suggestions ("Do you want to get your hair cut?") or ("Do you think those shoes will be comfortable?") but beyond that, it really is "their gig". It's their party, not mine. I had mine a few years ago and the results, while not stellar, are the ones I have.

I want them to have their own. I want them to look back and say, "God, that tie was terrible, how could my mom let me out of the house with that on???" because really that is the point -- they are at the age where they can make their own choices in these matters and so far, picking out ties are the least of my worries.

I'm much more concerned with the relationship that we're building from here on out. I want them to come home occasionally and bring me stories of their lives -- lives which I will increasingly have less and less a role -- and tell me how they are handling things. I figure I'll still be trying to get my own life right and since that ties up a lot of my focus, I'll go easy on the advice column.

I think these years are fertile opportunities for them to make a lot of stupid mistakes in an environment that allows them to recover. Bad ties, bad haircuts -- even bad relationships with others -- are, at this stage of the game, not fatal. They could, even, be the impetus for changes for better, when they are embraced in that way.

As a parent, I'm not that great at grace. I noticed this yesterday while I was in my garden. A tree that I had planted was not performing as I thought it should. I use the word "performing" because that's what it was suppose to do -- give lucious red buds so that it could be the center of attention that I just knew it could be, right there next to the lovely green.

But my red bud looked gangly, with long limbs that appeared bare. I had decided that it was dead and needed removing. I trudged out to it and after inspecting it carefully, saw no more buds on the upper branches. I picked up the shovel and sliced it into the ground.

But at the bottom of the plant, I saw this one, small, tiny bud, reaching with all its might to the sky. The one evidence of life, the only evidence that I could see.

And so I had a dilemma. Do I keep the tree there, hoping it can pull through? Or do I trash it to the heap and plant a newer plant, one that is already bearing fruit?

As parent, there's only one solution. You put down the spade. You trim back the limbs so the plant can put its energy into healthy growth, you water, water, water.

And you pray. You pray a lot.

I don't have a lot of pics from last night. I was involved with getting their corsages (they were late from soccer games). I made sure they ate, their dress and shirts were somewhat pressed. I didn't hover over them at the hair salon -- although I did pay for their services.

I saw the invitations from other parents -- the elaborate plans that some went to for their "kids prom night". And honestly, I felt more than a little inadequate that I didn't do more. The familiar tapes of "what will other parent's think of me??" still echoes in my head sometime.

But I'm learning to understand that in 20 years, when my kids casually see their prom pics behind the pics of their wedding, their kids first birthday and all that, I want them to see one thing: that it was their night, their idea, their journey.

After we got them off - and I felt again that ache that accompanies most everything we do these days -- my husband had the good sense to pack me up and take me somewhere to eat. He is a simple man and figures that most all the pain in my heart can be eased with a full stomach, something that I think is true for him. I did notice that he sat with his back to the TV, which had all the details of the Final Four. I loved him for that, that he was more interested in me for awhile than the coaches and the players in the tournament.

We talked about the night - and more importantly - of the days to come as our son gradutes from high school, starts his college years and our daughter starts her final days of High School.
We talked about the time we'll have when we're not carting them around to tournaments, band camps and friends houses. We talked about the house and the repairs we want to do, the ideas for the garden.

We avoided talking about what was uppermost in our minds, the question that every parent asks, "Did we do enough?" "Will they be OK?" "Will they make it 'out there' alone?"

The answers, I think, would be "Yes and No. We did too much of some things and not near enough of others. They will be OK, but they will hurt and cry and love and laugh. And most importantly, "yeah, they'll be fine. They'll find their way. They'll blame us for stuff and celebrate us for other stuff. They'll realize when they bring their own newborn home just how puzzling, wierd and completely overwhelming being a parent can be."

But for now, their minds are on themselves, their next gig with their friends, their boyfriend and what they'll wear to school.

Which is how it should be.

Time Travelers

I'm speaking to a group today on the issue of time management. I always am surprised, really, at the audience when I arrive, they have big thick journals or shiny, sharp palm pilots. And I always smile, because I know that when I pull out my small notebook of scrabbled notes, I'll get more than a few disdainful smiles.

The reality is that we don't manage time. It manages us. We like to think that we can harness it, direct it, position it and make it our own. But time is of another species, I think and we do well to understand that.

The best we can do with time is simply allow it. We can't rush it, hurry it, stop it or frighten it into submission, although most of us do our best to do just that. We think that if we design intimidating schedules that we will somehow frighten time into obeying us.

What's that phrase -- we plan time and God laughs?

I think the first step in having time is letting time alone, let it be. Most of us go through life like kids on a Halloween hunt, cramming all the little chocolate pieces into the bag as fast as we can, scarfing it down, while the ooey, gooey mess runs down our chins. It's more like we assault the time in which we're in.

Just once I want someone to tell me, "I really want to enjoy my time here.." or "I love investing time in the things I love.." But they don't tell me that. They come to me with furrowed brows and looking all the world like worn out time travelers, they say, "I really need to get a handle on my time.."

That's just it. We can't. The best we can do is to simply understand that time is outside of our control and that we have been given pieces of it to cherish and to love.

That's why my most treasured moments with my kids aren't on the vacations that I painstakingly took months to plan, but at the kitchen table at 6 in the morning when Im in my early morning coma, clutching my hot tea like a life preserver, my kid will turn to me and say, "how can I talk to my friend about her stupid boyfriend?"

And I am jostled out of the reverie and know that this is it -- this is the moment that the parenting books talk about and warn you about that you better do something wondeful, like shut up and listen.

Or like the moment when I'm in my garden and amidst the dry brown leaves there emerges a tiny shoot of a rose bush, that wasn't there a few days ago and I am again struck by the notion that life continues onward even we we swear that the cold of winter has killed everything, even our sagging spirit.

Life presents moments to us in disguise and if we are awake, if we are thoughtful, we can find that this is the moment among all others and this is the moment that if need be, we must cancel all the other pending appointments on our beloved datebook and stop, and pray and be worshipful.

Life sneaks up on us, hoping to catch us off guard, I think, just so we can be surprised at its beauty and its wonder. We're usually too busy planning our next event, scolding our kids for being late for school, cursing the wind for bringing all those leaves that cover the ground.

I wonder, at those times, if God falls back on his haunches and sighs. "She missed it again!" he mourns. "When will she get it?"

My datebook today is penciled and marked, already has a few bold strokes through things that I knew -- just knew -- would come through. There is a gap in the afternoon that troubles me for this is nothing more disconcerting to a person like myself than a blank in their datebook.

I wonder, if today, I would just walk out to the garden and stand there, wondering what mercies I'm missing by filling that blank with stuff? I wonder, if I just stood in the kitchen while my kids ate yet another bag of cheese puffs I just stood there, in wonder and awe and listened and opened my eyes?

Doorway People -- first draft

I've been thinking a lot about doors and entryways lately. Mostly because I've been replacing two back exterior doors in my house.

What began as a simple thought one cold winter day, ("I think I want a new storm door..") has emerged as a major re-do project including new deadbolts, painting, new interior doors and numerous trips to my local hardware store.

And it got me thinking about something -- a snippet of an idea, really, but one that keeps coming back to me.

How are people like doors?

I think there are a lot of similarities. Some people are gateways to new worlds, new ideas, new ways of doing life.

And some are closed. Hard. Bolted shut.

I've known a lot of doorway people in my life -- those that provided the means to a turn in life that opened up new possibilities, new ways of thinking.

And I've known a few that kept me out, shut me out, kept me at bay.

I've started studying doors all around town, looking at how they provide entrance to their structures, how they beckon or how they detour. I've discovered that doors are fascinating, really, and say more about the structure in which they exist than most anything else.

Some say, "welcome". Others say "Keep Out".

The thing is, I use to take doors for granted. I didn't notice the hardware (silver or gold, matte or shiny) , or how it opened (left or right) or if there were windows at the top or bottom or if at all. I use to not even notice if a door was painted or stained or if it had a lock or a chain or a deadbolt.

(continued...)

Memos from God

I am surrounded today of reminders of a 14 year journey. I just arrived home from a conference with work that will be a benchmark, a milestone for me.

I often attend such conferences reluctantly. I am not, by my own wiring, a social person. I enjoy long walks on the beach and big thick books. And alone time -- lots and lots of alone time. My husband tells me that I'm like a battery which needs a lot of time to recharge. I think he is right.

So often I find myself at confernces such as this one checking my watch, waiting for the right moment to duck out, leave early.

Not this time. This time, I was asked to teach which pleased me. I put together my speech, somewhat academically, and went prepared to do my job.

Only this time, my job did me. As I wrestled to bring what I had put onto paper into applications, the art of storytelling did what it has done for thousands of years -- it took mere experiences and gave them a spirit and a soul. I wish I could take credit for this -- say that it was my great oratory experience that achieved this. But it wasn't. There is no way that I could have on my own strength, of which has been sagging, done this thing.

I think this spirit emerged because of something that I know so little about. It is about people who believe in someone -- friends from this journey of 14 years -- who have watched me, mentored me, believed in me and yesterday they stood by me while I thought -- I thought -- that I was suppose to teach them.

But what happened, was that they taught me. Again.

Some people are given families who do this for them. Others are given churches or friends. I think all of all us are given some tribe from which we are born, we grown, we learn, we work, we wrestle and play and laugh and we emerge different than what we would have been alone. War buddies talk about this, people who work on projects together may have this. And yesterday, I was humbled to see that I have it, too, although most of the time, I arrogantly believe that I walk by myself. Nothing could be farther from the truth.

It's these memos from God that he sends us when spirits such as this join that say, "See? I told you I would stay with you. You just have to know where to look."

I don't have a complicated theology. It is very simple - there is a God and I am not Him. I do not know how God works, wouldn't begin to say I understood His ways or that I often agree with Him. Most of the time, I treat God like some belligerent sibling, shaking my head saying, "Why on EARTh would you do THAT?"

I hope that I always have those questions. After all, a God that I can understand is one that is smaller than me, really. And what kind of a God is that? The day that I can formulate and equate God in my feeble mind will be a sad day indeed.

Somedays it is enough to wonder and muse, though my heart may be heavy with things I don't understand. Somedays - like yesterday -- I am reminded that I don't have to have the answers. Only the courage to continue the search.

The Inward Garden

What is a Garden?

"To most people, a garden is that portion of their yards that has been planted, tended, or landscaped. It may be a small vegetable patch, a bright flower border, or a carefully landscaped outdoor room. But a garden is far more than just a planted space. It is a touchstone; a repository of memories that forms a place of joy in your life. A garden exists not only as part of your backyard landscape, but as a site that resides in your imagination, a collection of personally satisfying images that can be expressed upon your land."

From "The Inward Garden" by Julie Moir Messervy

I am re-reading this fascinating book that has been on my gardening shelf. With my plans for working in the yard scrapped because of a late freeze, I am reminded that all gardens - -like all good ideas -- begin first in the mind, in the imagination. So I garden with my eyes, seeing the curves and rows that can begin when the ground is not so cold, when the sun returns again. These are good times for contemplation of what can be and what will be.

My garden, March 23, Spring Break. 

Spring Break

The week dawns rainy and damp, which is much needed after over 167 days of no rain over 1/2 inch. My garden is, to say the least, confusesd and dazed from the early heat. Already the white star magnolia and hyacinths are in full bloom several weeks early.

And we'll probably still have a freeze, probably on Easter Day. In addition, I wouldn't be surprised to see a tornado or two with hail thrown in just for good measure. Such are the gods of weather in Oklahoma during spring.

I'm am not deterred. Although I have to don heavy sweats and boots to trudge outside, I purchase two small redbuds -- the Eastern variety, which bloom later than the Oklahoma Redbud. These are native to Oklahoma and so work well with the variable weather patterns.

I just like how they look -- all frayed out and magenta and heralding spring. I like them much bettter than forsythia's which are the true harbingers of spring in these parts.

I set the small trees out along the curved path that I've outlined with my garden hose. I have to try several positions before it looks OK. I finally put them along the curves so that they are staggered with the existing red buds and the "path" that is still just an imaginery curve with an old garden hose. This pleases me, though, even though its temporary, it feels like I'm making progress with this project.

I envision evergreens now in front of these pink and purple statues, which will make a good break both for privacy and for beauty. Somewhere, though, I will have to accomodate some shade. I have two spots marked out although right now there are some twigs that Dan planted and he insists that they are alive, although they look a bit anemic to me. I figure if they don't leaf out by mid spring I can convince Dan that we can get some larger twigs, maybe some with leaves on them, and plant there.

What is left to decide is the design of the path which I'm still comtemplating. I'm wondering about using some wood and stone design. Or I may just try some gravel. One thing I know -- I will lay dark black week control under whatever component I choose, having learned the hard way with last year's path that unless I do so, the bermuda claims the path and I have way too much weeding. I think that the US Army should create some deviant form of Bermuda that may grow more quickly than it does here in OK. If they did, then perhaps they could use it in combat and simply throw a sprout on an enemy -- say from a few miles away -- and then in a matter of minutes, the bermuda could completely overtake the enemy, stopping it in its path. You gotta admit, this could be a real "green" way to wage a war, although I don't know if it would be any more humane. Suffocation could commence within a few minutes and imprisonment from the bermudas sprouts could cut off entire limbs before it could be reigned in. I could see entire brigades brought to a complete halt simply by this method. I can see soldiers have post-traumatic stress when they arrive home and see Bermuda in their yards because of their memories on the battlefield.

I guess, with weather as wierd and unpredictable, though, bermuda is a good plan to have for the yard.

Rainy Sunday with the garden, Thomas Merton and NY Times

My son and I went to see "V for Vendetta" last night and we both left the theater feeling like we'd been on an andrenaline rush for 2 hours. I can't say yet if I "liked" the movie, although it kept me riveted and kept me thinking, two qualities that I believe make for good movie-going fodder.

Trouble is, I'm not sure what it was about. There were so many images, so many themes -- fear being the central one of them, I think.

It's one of those films that rattles you - -there is nothing subtle about it.

My son, on the other hand, loved it. Which I think is more the point. The entire "matrix mentality" resonates more with his age, I think. There is some kind of coded language that he and fellow 18 year olds share that I find like a secret language. He's still talking about it today and although he doesn't really share what he thinks the point of the film is, clearly it is something that means something to him.

Which may be the whole problem between the generations. Maybe my generation searches too hard for meaning, where my son is able to see, read, hear it and say, "OK, that's cool. It means nothing to me, but I really liked the lighting and music. He doesn't press it for some spiritual comment.

I asked him on the way home, "Do you think the "V" character is Osama Bin Laden"?

"What?" he says incredeously, almost stopping the car to pin me to my seat with his glare. "What ever gave you that idea?"

"Maybe it was the bombing of Parliament and the idea that this guys "V" was going after the government, kind of like Osama Bin Laden?" I offer this more as a question, suddenly not sure at all what I'm thinking.

"Patrick Henry was a patriot, y'know. We read about him in our history books. Maybe "V" is a Patrick Henry guy."

"Is there a difference?" I say this as a challenge.

To which he responds in the typical teenage fashion, "Whatever, mom", which effectively ends the discussion.

I've learned that no argument is too far gone that a trip through Taco Bueno won't cure, so we head that way and through greasy tacos and sugary cokes we talk about the music, the lighting, the things that matter to him and am amazed at how he organizes his world around these art forms.

Today, I beg off from church, intent upon my path that I'm working on outside. I'm getting excited about it. I've carefully laid out the watering hose, making a curving line that pleases me. It starts at the back patio and ends at the pergola, effectively connecting these two disparate parts, with a small bridge and ponds between.

Right now, it looks rather primitive, crusty old garden hose looping around in these arcs, but I can see the path, can see where I'm going with it. It is like most journeys, really, which start as an idea and germinates and grows until it springs forth in its form that I can grasp.

Creating a garden path, like so many elements of the garden, require a form of meditation, I think. You have to know where you start. You have to know at least the direction of where you're going, although how you may get there, the curves you take, may not be clearly defined. And the manner in which you go, the elements of rocks or wood or gravel, is something that really presents itself to you. It cannot be forced, it has to emerge in its own time.

And so my son has his movie and I have my garden and with each one we interpret the world around us, the common bridge being spirit that speaks uniquely to both of us, in groanings that we can each hear in our own way.

Spring projects

Unseasonably warm weather has brought out the fierce side of my "gotta getta done" personality. This generally results in me arising earlier in the mornings, dawdling in the garden with clothing that is fit for those that live and work in a circus. I stand outside in something of a stupor staring at what appears to be bare ground. Only I know differently, there is something growing there it just needs a little nurturing.

What I find startling is how ideas and designs will begin to emerge even if if I'm struggling to keep my eyes open. I believe that mornings were designed for those more spiritually aligned and so for me, it takes some time for me to become human. Therefore, I beseech the spirits in the garden to awaken me before I have human contact. This should be a requirement for other people I know, too.

This spring, I'm enamored with the idea of a bridge between two puddles that I like to call "ponds". I can see the wood, painted the palest shade of blue, like the pergola, and I can see the stones that lead to and from it. They are right there between the newly planted redbuds and the soon to be planted shade trees that can keep the intense hot sun off my porch and give me a nice reading nook, too.

As I toured the garden this morning I see that nature has already been busy and I am comforted by the idea that while I sleep and stumble through life, nature plods along doing her thing in spite of me and sometimes despite me. I stumble through the garden and see the hyacinths that have been forced from their slumber by the warmer weather, too, and I wonder if they feel a bit shaken by the force of this spring that seems destined to come early.

I spent considerable time staring at this rather blank spot in my yard sipping my coffee and hoping that the neighbors aren't staring out their windows wondering what I'm staring at. I ponder the idea that I am probably good kitchen-talk for them as they eat their cheerios or danish. I can almost hear the man of the house with that Okie redneck twang, "What the hell is she looking at out there, mama?" To which the lady of the house will snicker and say, "y'know, I don't know! And look at those pants -- does she not KNOW that others will see her in that?" I fear a call from the chief of police anyday now.

It doesn't matter. This is my garden, in my part of the world. It is my paradise, where I come to ponder the weighter things in my life such as how I'll get Nathan food in time for his next departure to calculus club or musical or band practice. As I'm studying the knotty problem of how to form the perfect arc in my pathway, I will often have some snag of an idea emerge, something that has been dodging me for awhile, present itself with a solution that I would never have uncovered had I sat at my desk and stared at my datebook.

To me, the simple reality that the hyacinths follow the order of things comforts me that there is a weightier force at work here and that if I pay attention, I'll find my own path, too.

The downside of such early contemplation is that it doesn't leave me. As I sit across the table from clients or return calls, I'm often doodling in my notebook on the living fence that will bridge two disparate parts of the garden into one continuous line. I find that as I smile and run through me day I remember to breathe a little slower and a little more purposefully thinking about the flat of perennials that will be planted next month in a spot that cries out for color.

I wonder what other people do who do not have gardens and this thought confounds me. Last night, we drove to Muskogee for a soccer game and as we came upon the high school, I thought what I usually think as I approach some state or educational building which is, "why are places of education always designed like prisons?" Wouldn't it be lovely if kids passing through that miserable adolescent stage could have a garden to ponder the weighty parts of their lives, like what will they wear or who will they ask to prom? Couldn't their senses be given a jolt of wonder seeing something besides pavement and metal lockers?

Which brings me to another important part of gardening which is that of sharing the garden with others. Rarely do I emerge from the garden that I don't have a long list of groceries to buy for the perfecte sunday afternoon dinner which I imagine sharing with my family or friends in the pergola, which will soon be dripping with purple strings of wisteria. Sunday afternoons in the garden are as close to perfect as I can imagine.

Books that are reading me

For my birthday, I received several books. I'm always glad to get a book as a gift but I also realize that those giving books often have no other idea what to get you, so they give you a book. It's kind of like telling you that you are, indeed, a total geek and their gift of a book lets you know that its OK to be a geek. Still, I always like getting books, geek or not.

This year, I had a couple thrown my way that have been a challenge to read. "The Care of the Soul" by Thomas Moore is so deep, it makes my head hurt because I have to think so hard. I think that's what a shift in paradgim feels like...like a bad migraine when your perspective shifts and you come out on the other side of an old thought that no longer works for you. Then, you can just throw it away and say, 'wow, i'm not going to think that anymore'. And sometimes it really is that easy.

This book, though, it tough stuff. It talks about jealousy and envy in ways that startle me, encourage me and madden me. That's the kind of book I like to read, one that really makes it tough for me to see the point, then illuminates the way with it.

Here's the best line in the book, "The dragon in the labrynth will become an angel to light your way". And if your head is hurting, then you should get the book and read some more, because it is really good.

The other book, "Blue Like Jazz" also holds promise. I have been reading Anne Lamott "Plan B..." and I like her prose and style very well. I'm always a bit skeptical of anything that is classified as "religious" literature because I wonder, if someone gave me this book, are they trying to make a point? Are they wanting me to be MORE religious? Because, I'm not interested in being religious at all. In fact, I think there is evil that resides in most religiousity be it religious about church, God or the NFL. There's something about religion that makes you just want to throw up.

So I'm cautious with these other books. Unfortunately, most christian writers seem to write on a level that is about 5th grade and that just makes me mad. I may not be religious and I may at times act like an atheist, but I'm not stupid. So talk to me like I have a brain in my head, please.

My friend Chuck gave me the book "Blue Like Jazz" and when he said, "I think you'll like it.." I knew that he was saying it was probably about some religious rebel who finds God.
As it turns out, I was right. It is about a rebel who finds God.

I'm not sure I'm all that interested in finding God. I've kind of given up on the search, really. I think if God is there, then maybe He can find me. I'm not that hard to find. I'm usually the one acting up in church anyway, so I shouldn't be too hard to miss. In fact, I think there should a church service just for those of us who have to get up an leave and sit it the foyer while the preacher drones on. I think those sitting in the foyer are the ones really looking, anyway, they just aren't intersted in the fashion show that has become what most churches pass off as church.

If there is a God, then I want him to be bigger than fashion, bigger than money and much,much bigger than trends. I get really nervous when my christian friends start spouting from a particular author because he's "trendy" and going to all the right conferences. I don't think most real prophets enjoyed that kind of popularity for long, so when someone gets really popular with the christian culture, I think, "they must have good agents" not, "they must speak for God". Because my slight experience with God is that what He says isn't always easy and its not always popular.

So I'll read on. I like that a lot of authors are trying to "keep it real" but I'm still going to be skeptical. Skeptical on the whole God thing, and on the whole following God thing.

What I know - and I know precious little -- that following God is more of a white-knuckler than a trip to Disneyworld. And that kind of commitment in me comes hard and frankly, I'm not sure I'm up for it.

I mean, it is easy to follow something outside yourself when things are easy and good. That takes no real effort. But follow something called "faith" when things start getting scary -- like having teenagers - and then, you find just how wimpy your faith is.

I guess that's where I am. I have a middle-aged faith. One that knows that the puppets have strings and the preachers are all kind of kooky and still I keep looking for this thing called God.

And maybe one day, He'll find me.

Officially Garden Time

Yesterday was the day.

I crunched over dead, lifeless grass so that I could water the garden. We've had grass fires in our area, helped along by some reckless teenagers with bottle rockets, and we've had record drought. My garden is heaving and sighing for drink.

I spent all day yesterday moving hoses around and trying to saturate the plants. This morning I'm doing it some more, only today is more cold, more like what winter should really feel like. As I stood there in the whipping wind, I felt the axis turn, I knew that some creative spirit was afoot.

As I stood there moving hoses, I noticed a curve that I had not seen before. It begged to be drawn out, given more definition. It begged to be turned into a wall or some sort.

That's where I started and for the next hour I was lost as I planned the rentention wall that I've been trying to figure out for the past twelve months. And it was there all the time. I just had to "see" it. I had to trudge out there in my pajama bottoms and sweatshirt, pulling a dirty hose at just the right time, with just the right lighting to see what has been there begging to be seen.

And I sighed with relief.

Sure, I've kept busy with indoor tasks -- cooking, painting, doing some odd jobs around the house. But my heart yearns for the smell of fresh compost, the feeling of dirt in my hands, the wet earth as it awakens from its wintery sleep.

So I dug out the gardening books and plans and began scouting for my first project. Definately, the pergola needs its front garden and the front yard needs its finishing. There's enough work there to keep me busy through mid-May.

My first step will be to invest in six redbuds, native to Oklahoma and stunning in the spring cool air with their magenta and white buds. I want three of each color to set in front of the pergola.

Beyond that there is a lot of structure work that I will do starting in a few days -- pathways and crosswalks, those things that really bring structure to a garden that have little to do with fragrance or leaf, but are nonethless essential for focus and direction. I often joke with Nathan and tell him, "this is really why you were born, to help me with all this stuff". Actually, its the other way around, I think. The garden is a good way to stay in touch with other growing things, like kids.

So it is now officially garden time for me. I'll start lurking around the aisles of the garden stores near my house and I'll stop for my daily breaks to walk the yard, to sit and stare at the blank holes while I'm sure my neighbors wonder if my senses have left me.

Indeed they have. Gardening brings out all kinds of spooks in me. The garden haunts me, mystifies me, confounds me, soothes me. It is, for me, a place of reflection and of peace. It is where I go to think, to ponder, to wander and to wonder. It is as close to God as I ever feel and the paths of my garden are more sacred to me than any pew in any church.

I am grateful for the season ahead and thankful for the seasons before.

Behind the soulfulness of pure, saturated light and color, as best seen in the myriad flowered faces of Nature, is the beautiful face of God smiling down in blessing upon us. -- Narana 

Soulful Solitude

While in Atlanta, while I was thinking I was on this "business trip", while I was busying myself with the busy-ness of conferencing, something amazing transformed me.

I wish I could say it happened in a class that I was sitting in at the conference center. I wish that I could say, too, that it happened while I interacted with someone who I profoundly admire.

I don't know about how the spirits work -- I only know that that at times there is a presence that is either one of great comfort or one of great sorrow and sometimes you need both to get you to where you are going.

Whether it was the result of a beautiful surroundings, or eating certain kinds of food or getting rest...whatever created/caused it, all I can say it that I'm grateful.

When someone uses words like "spirit" or "sacred" around me, I get all nervous and twitchy, so engrained from my fundamentalist heritage are these words that they've lost their energy, they've lost their power. They tend to be reduced to some flannel-graph imagery associated with scratchy lace from my Easter Dress. Not a fun reminder. Not one that transports one into grandeurs of presence with a great Spirit.

But these moments aren't contained into things we always understand and I guess, because of my heritage, they have to be a bit more resourceful in sneaking up on me and bopping me on top of the head with insight.

And again, I'm grateful for that. As for flexibilty and workability, I'm not always an eager patient. I'm sure that whatever forces worked their way into my cranium this weekend had to work pretty darn hard to get there.

All I know is that there was a moment of such clarity that I had to stop -- literally stop -- in my tracks and look upward.

I didn't hear angels wings and I didn't see any great light -- except for the sun, which was just over my shoulder because this moment - like so many in my life -- happened in a garden while I was quiet and alone.

I believe there are great forces in nature that draw me to it that can shake the dreariest moments from my life simply by thrusting my hands into soil. I believe that these forces can lead us to ourselves in ways that no amount of traditional prayer can ever do so. I also believe that solitude can be a powerful way to connect with the things that matter -- yourself, your God and the things that are rustling between the two. I find that there is no place that I feel closer to whatever the spirit of God is than in a garden.

Today, I'm home and I've already been out in my little patch of paradise, thinking about the spring and what all it can be this year. My garden has waited for me -- like it does each year -- for this moment when I remember it, remember myself and remember the forces that draw me to it. And so today as I walked in my garden thinking about the garden of last year and the garden of the new year, I stopped for a moment and looked upward.

And I'm filled with gratitude and joy.

Business respite

Over dessert, my friends were bemoaning their hotel accomodations during a hectic conference. They complained of most of the usual things that travelers complain -- too small rooms, feelings of overcrowded, views of concrete and parking lots.

I smiled as I thought about the cooked to order breakfast I had nestled in the dining room of the King-Keith Guest House (www.kingkeith.com) a fascinating historic Bed and Breakfast in Atlanta, GA. I remembered the walk in the garden that I had that morning before the business of the day enveloped me.

My room is huge with a private bath and I stay in touch with my internet, provided by high speed service that comes with my room. For midnight snacks, the pantry on the first floor is loaded with all my favorites, including animal crackers, cookies, soda, even wine. Admittedly, my own kitchen pales in comparison.

Yet all the antique furnishings and beautiful garden only compliment the casual graciousness of the Innkeepers who have that ability to serve without hovering. This is a place that has that elusive quality I like to call 'soul', which nurtures more than tired airport feet and weary conference blues. This place soothes and calms to make rest and respite possible.

The home is located in historic Inman Park whose rich history mirrors that of a city bustling with activities, from the oh-so- trendy Virginia Highlands Shopping District to the beautiful new Georgia Aquarium, there is much to do and see in this southern town. Just a few blocks from here is the Jimmy Carter Library and the CNN station heralds from just beyond the convention center. I expect to see Rev. Jesse Jackson or Jon Stewart or any of the Sierra Club at any local restaurant.

I crawled onto the plane hoping that upon my return, I'd have some time to rest. Not to worry, I'll arrive home rested and refreshed, filled with the comforts of southern Atlanta.

889 Edgewood Ave, NE, Atlanta, GA. 

Warm sunny porch perfect for reflection.