Happy belated May Day…although I still wake up every morning wondering, What season will it be today? A lot of folks have asked if I’ve been
doing much gardening this spring, and I reply that I spent a lot of hours in my
yard last fall, so when warmer weather arrives (whenever that will be), all I
have to do is sit back and enjoy the new growth. Sure, I’ve cut my grass a couple of times and
pulled dandelions out of the turf, but for the most part, it’s been
wonderful to sit on the back porch or stroll through the north forty (a.k.a. my
teeny tiny backyard), watching the perennials do their thing.
I’ve been gardening for the
better part of twenty-five years, but to be honest, I’ve loved puttering around
in flower beds since I was a kid. My mom
had a green thumb and while it took some time before I developed mine, I was no
stranger to weeding, watering, and harvesting blossoms to bring into the
house. Once I bought my own home, it was
hit or miss for a few years. Then, once
I started practicing yoga and began to innately experience the rhythm of the
seasons, something primordial took over.
Last night I said to a friend, “The
front yard is pretty eclectic, colorful, and lush, but it still has some
structure because I want it to look well-manicured. But the backyard…well, that I let grow a
little wild.”
Joyce laughed.
“I suppose my gardens reflect who
I am in more ways than one,” I continued.
“What I show to the world is pretty well put together, but what’s behind
closed doors is still….”
“In process?”
“Yep,” I laughed. “But in many ways I love that part just as
much.”
Even though I truly miss all of
the friends I made Big Sur, I miss the work as well. Imagine starting the day at sunrise, opening
up the screen door of a little hut that sits on a cliff overlooking the ocean, feeling
the ocean breeze on your face, breathing in the cool, salty sea air, and
walking through a field of ruby, red strawberries all the while knowing you’re
going to spend the entire day outside playing in the dirt. Even though much of it was labor intensive
and the garden crew was consistently changing hands as work scholars came and
went, I loved it all: the planting and
harvesting, taking care of seedlings in the greenhouse, nurturing our passel of
ornery chickens, and teaching new arrivals the joy of being immersed in a “slow
food” environment.
Now the only chicks who skitter
around my yard are the kids who come over for yoga classes, but I still
practice much of what I learned living on the edge of the earth in
California. Before I moved to Big Sur, I had
a string of accidents in which I fell down the stairs, fell out of a headstand
onto a concrete floor (twice), tripped over a threshold, and tumbled into a
ravine where I landed on a rock that was way bigger than a breadbasket. The irony of being a yoga instructor and
being way off balance is not lost on me, but I teach what I need to learn over
and over again. So it’s no surprise that
after spending nearly a year tending the earth, I returned to Toledo much more
grounded and stable. Now I no longer
trip and fall. I can lift heavy weights
at the gym with steadiness, if not yet with grace. And I’m able to teach a wide variety of
balancing poses and find some modicum of success in every class.
Not that I push it anymore, for
I’ve discovered over the years that our bodies are just like a garden. Sometimes it takes a while for a seed to
sprout, for a plant to mature, for an idea or a thought to properly propagate
before I can enjoy a long-awaited harvest.
I’m often reminded that stability needs to be in place before
flexibility can be truly developed or appreciated. A plant can’t grow without strong roots and
our body-mind-spirit connection can’t really awaken until we have our feet
firmly rooted in a place that feels healthy and supportive, be it in our homes,
work environment, or in our relationships.
Sometimes it can take years for any progress to be seen, but as Marie
Forleo so brilliantly states: All progress begins with a brave decision.
In the same way a seed needs to have
the courage to split itself open in order to release its full potential, so do
each one of us. In order to grow, we
often have to tear open those places that have remained rigidly in place due to
fear, habit, or an unwillingness to let go.
Yet, in my experience, the incredible liberation and joy that follow the
uncertainly is infinitely worth the turmoil.
After all, to be brave doesn’t mean we’re not afraid. It simply means we allow our courage to walk
hand in hand with our fear and lead the way forward.
What better way to learn the ways
of overcoming obstacles than to tend a garden?
I’m always amazed at the
brilliance of nature to withstand even the coldest of winters and still bring
forth lilac blossoms in the springtime. Just this morning on my way to teach, I
noticed the Solomon Seal blooming in the south corner of my yard. Wanting to get a closer look, I passed by the
raised bed where I’ll soon plant chard and kale and cilantro. There, tucked in neat rows of every hue of
green I could image were tiny spinach and lettuce leaves, leftovers from last
year’s harvest. Here, there, and
everywhere along the fence, tiny Morning Glories are sprouting up from the
cool, moist Earth. Even though it might
seem like March in Toledo these days, my garden is still growing…slowly this
year, but that’s the way I like it.
For anything worth having often
takes a bit more time.
During the last few months I
spent in Big Sur, my advisor’s daughter would walk through the garden on her
way to breakfast. I always kept a pair
of scissors nearby, so whenever I saw Logan, I could clip a flower or two for
her to take on the way. Day by day, she
asked me the names of each of the blossoms, quickly learning the difference
between the lavender and dahlias, poppies and day lilies, jasmine and passion
flowers.
“Garden Katie!” Logan beamed when
she arrived each morning. “What flower
can you teach me today?”
Although she couldn’t have known
it back then, when I clipped each blossom, a memory often came back to me,
something that each flower stirred up inside:
the regret I had felt when I planted the sunflowers the previous spring,
the contentment I experienced while weeding the sedum, the overwhelming sorrow
that came from tending the basil, the incomparable love I felt while pruning
the rose bushes. For Logan, the garden
was a source of unique treasures to be discovered. For me it was a channel through which I discovered the hidden
treasures within myself that were revealed through tending a place that was
both my sanctuary and my salvation.
On the morning I left Esalen, I had
breakfast with Logan and her parents.
The day previous I had arranged little bouquets of flowers in mugs and
set them on the tables in the lodge.
Logan eagerly sat up in her chair and started pointing at each of them
saying, “That’s a lily…that’s a eucalyptus…that’s a little lavender.”
“You know every single one,” I
smiled. “How about that?”
They say it takes a village to
raise a child, and I believe that’s true for it takes all kinds of people with different
talents and abilities to nurture a little one into adulthood. But it also takes a garden to remind us of
where we came from, where we’ll return when this life is over. We all start out as little seeds, then grow
into sprouts. Over time our lives come
into full bloom. Then, when one harvest
is over, we can plant new seeds with the hope of a new one to come.
Over and over again, each one of
us can become both the gardener and the growth, trusting the seasons of our
lives to lead the way onward.
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| With adorable Logan, admiring a gorgeous Big Sur bouquet. |
