Hollyhocks from last year, blooming amidst roses. The best part of perennial gardening is that fall brings a harvest of perennials to place in other garden beds. Most of my perennials seed themselves so it saves money, time and you have lots to work with for drifts. 

This is the garden I created last year. It is towards the back of the existing garden. I hope to build a cottage near this garden. It features Stella D'ora lillies, heritage roses, spirea and some evergreens, none of which are too evident in this pic. 

The hummingbird garden that my daughter created. The honeysuckle smells amazing. 

My garden this morning, after a big April rain. To the right, "New Dawn" is beginning to unfold. I have no idea what kind of climber is on the right, but it looks better this year than it is has for a long time.  

Newly dug beds around the pond. The unfinished bridge is to the right. 

Table for Two

After weeks of no rain, my fair town was treated to the equivalent of six inches of rainfall. Trouble was it came in a mere twenty minutes, causing all kinds of havoc with tornadoes, electricity outages and tree limbs thrown askew.

This clearly causes problems for the Channel 8 news guy, who must interrupt programming every nanosecond to show me some colorful new whiz-bang map which is suppose to reassure me that he is watching the storm and that all is well.

Such things do not reassure me. While I squint at my TV, hearing loud booms overhead and seeing water seeping in through what I thought was a safe, dry living room, I can't help but wonder how a neon colored map with swirling dots is suppose to make me feel safe. I am impressed, though, with the splash of colors and often find myself wondering who is responsible for selecting the electric blue for thunderstorms and electric pink for hail storms. Is this some decision made over newsroom lunches? Who gets to vote? Does the office manager get to decide if yellow is too soothing or that green may infer safety? Such are my questions while the downfall continues outside my newly installed storm doors.

Secretly, I'm thrilled for the rain. I had tried to start preparing a new garden over the weekend but the dry, rocky soil chipped my new shovel. I grinned sheepishly at my husband who had warned me that the ground was too dry. "Just loosening it up" I said to him, sanding down the corner of my newly chipped shovel. Do engineers have some entitlement clause in their birth certificates which makes them ALWAYS right?

Rainfall means that the ground may actually be workable. So today, I ventured forth into the soggy sod and began the transformation that will, with lots of muscle and sweat, be the garden around my ponds and bridge. Since I've been hanging around my friends who are Jungian therapists I find myself wondering what they'll think of my little project. I can hear our phone discussion with them asking questions like, "What is REALLY going on here? Are you working out some demon? Do you feel stuck in your current life in some way? Are you in some transformation mode?"

I will deny anything of the sort. I will respond, saying I am just sick and tired of looking out my bedroom window and seeing bare ponds and bermuda threatening to take over my pergola and roses.

"You're in such denial" they'll say.

Maybe so. I'm not at all sure how working muddy soil can be both comforting and exciting. I don't really understand how a morning clipping rose buds can net me more satisfaction than two weeks of work. It is uncanny how seeing my gardens from last year prospering urges me forward, slicing through the weeds and bermuda, turning the soil, my back aching. It's not what most people call fun.

But I'm not most people and for me this is ten-times more fun than a Nordic Track or running aimlessly around a stadium track. Why? I have no idea. Just chalk it up to the forces of earth, rain, seeds, sunlight.

What I do know is that I'm cheap labor for the robin couple that lives in my garden. As I wrestle with the heavy, water -laden sod I see them out of the corner of my eye, perched on the pergola waiting for me to finish and leave so they can have their way with the grubs and worms that will emerge from the newly dug beds.

In between shovelfulls I wonder what they are saying in their bird-speak. I wonder if it is like me and Dan, waiting at Outback Steakhouse, watching the staff moving around aimlessly, while we are waiting, waiting, waiting for our table.

Does the female robin ask nervously, "Do you think she knows that we're here? Did you put our name in? Are we on the list?"

And when he doesn't repond does she continue, "Should I check on the kids? They were in the nest OK when we left, but..."

"Relax, I did all that" he says to her trying to soothe her ruffled feathers. "The kids are fine. They were sleeping when I looked in on them."

"It looks like there is a table over there, are we the next in line?" she continues to look around nervously. "Maybe if I go over there and remind her.."

"Wait just a minute" he interjects. "I"m not going to have you going over there..she's got a shovel, for God's sake. You swoop in too low, you're going to be bait for that older kids fishing trip this weekend."

I continue to slice the ground, turn the soil, groan, sit back and rest. Then I do it all over again. The robins continue to watch me, hopping around all the while. When I look at them they quickly turn the other direction as if to say, "hey, we're not in any hurry, just take your time."

I finish the first turning, sweat running down my brow in spite of the cooler temperatures from the rain. This work is much harder than it appears in the garden books. In the books, there is a diagram that has this neat rectangle spot where the ground is evenly turned. There are no stones that have come out of the ground sitting beside the tilled ground. There are no broken shovels that have been ruined in the process. There are no stick people in the diagram that have mud up to their knees or disapproving stick-people husbands watching from inside the pergola.

I rinse off the shovel, brew some coffee, work in other parts of the yard. The minute I leave, I see the robins claim the soil, digging for dinner for the kids.

This is my amazing family...From L to R, "Granddad", Ellen, Dan and Nathan. This was on Easter Sunday and I thought it was a great pic of all of them. 

Bridge over stagnant water, 2

This weekend, the focus continued to be on the pond. Dan and I have decided that our date nights are really excuses for us to work until dusk in the garden. It's an interesting thing to be a part of, like we read each other's minds and we work outside, doing the dance of spring where we clean out ponds, start new beds, clean out old. It's these rhythms, both unspoken and unrehearsed that bind me to a place and a time.

And to people. My kids and Dan.

The ponds are now leveled, filled with water, clean and ready for me to start the tilling of the soil around the bed. I don't know how much actual planting I'll do until fall. I have found that the garden books are right, take the time to amend the soil and the results will be exceptional.

Patient is a virtue, it's true, but it's not a lot of fun. I find myself sitting at the table indoors, peering outside, visually placing the plants in their spots. It's mezmerizing. I am aching to see the color. To see it finished.

And that is just the point. Gardening is not about quick fixes, giant leaps and monumental shifts. I find that tending the garden is daily, mindfully, slowly. And that constant attention, that almost meditative stance with the rhythms of the seasons are what bring a satisfaction that I have never known until I began gardening.

Today, I raked leaves from under the roses that are beginning to bloom. Wild Spice has already made her first appearance along with a few other rugosa roses. The day lillies are greening up and already the blue salvia is brilliant and blue. The weave of the plants came from the last four years of mindfully tending the spots, of walking daily through the space and wondering and thinking and dreaming.

It is this common task of mindfully walking, pausing to stare at a patch of bermuda and wonder, "What can that be?" that begins the process that may take years to manifest.

The next few weeks will be what I call the "non-sexy" stuff: tilling, amending, digging, sweating. It's the hard work -- the foundational work -- that no garden can exist without. It is not a process that can be rushed. There is a loose plan and I yet I know it will shift and change as I ponder the plants and the overall design that is taking place.

I cannot help but draw parallels from this process. The similarity of a life well lived that is thoughtfully, artfully tended. A life where changes are made simply: "Today I will start here" and "Tomorrow I can do this ir that. "

It sounds simple and yet I find it takes an uncommon focus and patience, neither of which I'm much good at.

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.