Back into the Fold

February 8, 2017. Noisy thunderstorms overnight, followed by a warm gentle rain most of the morning. Clearing skies around noon. Perfect time for a walk, followed by a little work in the yard.

We've had some cold weather this winter, for sure. But the temperature roller coaster has also crested over into the 70s several times, including today. I've been cleaning out the woods across from the house, mulching, killing weeds, all in anticipation of spring planting.

What's so remarkable is my overwhelming anticipation. No matter what other obligations and interests might be out there, no matter that the work is no longer a profession, I find myself pushing to get outside.. The first crocus flowers, the foliage of Tulipa clusiana, the Allium species showing buds..... all are due their close inspection, and  momentary appreciation, at least.

Really what I wanted, as the temperatures rose, was to put my hands in the dirt. It seemed cleansing, rejuvenating, and hopeful. But it was more than that. It was ritual, tradition, a solemn rite. Yes, the warm weather was welcome. True, the longer days were invigorating. But plunging my fingers into the cool, sandy black earth put me back into the fold; the order of the gardener. 

What makes this refuge so comfortable? In that sanctuary are gathered many souls, from then and now. We know the hour by the reach of shadow or the clench of petals; know the month by the swell of buds or the flourish of colors. We are immersed in the cosmos that is revealed moment by moment, plant by plant.

Those truest connections wash over us.

The work is hard. The harder the work, the more satisfying. The work is hot, or cold, or too dry, or too wet. We do what we can to mitigate. What we can't do, we yield to the great mother. It is a lesson in persistence, in humility, in optimism. And for me, it was always a lesson in finding the depth, the core, the bonds that make us a part of each other. 

My gardening friends know me, and I know them. There are few greater gifts than touching that knowledge every time you pick up a trowel.

May Sarton: "An Observation"

True gardeners cannot bear a glove

Between the sure touch and the tender root,

Must let their hands grow knotted as they move

With a rough sensitivity about

Under the earth, between the rock and shoot,

Never to bruise or wound the hidden fruit.

And so I watched my mother's hands grow scarred,

She who could heal the wounded plant or friend

With the same vulnerable yet rigorous love;

I minded once to see her beauty gnarled,

But now her truth is given me to live,

As I learn for myself we must be hard

To move among the tender with an open hand,

And to stay sensitive up to the end

Pay with some toughness for a gentle world.

Photography credit: Detail from "Farmer's Strong, Work Toughened Hands Planting in the Garden," by Ed Clark (originally black and white).