I write a lot about the garden being my therapy and how strolling its paths can lift my spirit, or napping on the back porch daybed restores my body. However, the best gift my garden gives is the joy of sharing its bounty.
For me, walking is no longer an automatic, mindless function. I struggle walking, wobbling with each step, anticipating the predictable pain of successive strides.
I love to read. Stories fascinate me. When words are juxtaposed just right within a narrative, they jump out at me and I get the “goosies!” I have spiral notebooks full of exquisite phrases and sentences gleaned from reading. These words are powerful. They make me stop and think, mull over a new idea, soak in a relatable epiphany, and absorb a fresh perspective on a familiar concept.
A kiss of the sun for pardon, the song of the birds for mirth, One is nearer God’s heart in a garden, than anywhere else on earth!
I wept. Commiserative grief, survivor’s guilt, and all-consuming powerlessness pushed at my soul after listening to the news about all the plants full of COVID infected but non-symptomatic mothers and fathers. This drowning sadness triggered in me historical vignettes of the marginalized WWII prisoners dejectedly lining up to enter what they thought was a work camp, but for the old, feeble, or the very young, was a death march into the incinerators.
I’m grateful to you my readers! Just when I get down on myself and think I’m not writing blogs from which you receive benefit, you send a request for a certain recipe, a thank you about a specific meditation, or questions about timely gardening tips.