June's Promise

 

Stepping out my door on a June morning,
the pots overflowing with snapdragons and petunias
welcome me,

and I look to the gardens beyond.

All this was worth it, I think.
All the work of the last four years,
digging, planting,
replanting, weeding,
moving plants around until they were happy.
All the physical and mental work
of making a garden was worth it.

Like the stream that meanders through a pasture,
I wander the garden paths,

catching the peony's scent 
and the breeze's whisper on my cheek.
Beardtongue sways with the bumblebees
and honey bees feed
in the comfrey and the catmint.
Beebalm stands at attention, a landing pad for fireflies
and the sweetspire and arrowwood are in bloom,
taking their turns in the garden's long offering
of provision.

Catbirds nest in the hazelnut,
chattering all the while.
House wrens chortle in the blackhaw
and titmice and Carolina wrens belt out
dueling variations on the same tune.
Barn and tree swallows twitter overhead
and ruby-throats zip from columbine to coral bells.
Green frogs glunk in the pond 
while baby bunnies sit still as statues in the grass.

I did not create this garden.
I set the plants in the ground
and they took it from there.
Plants are promiscuous beings, 
spreading their progeny where they will.
Creatures are the the recipients 
of this generous smorgasbord.
It was planted with them in mind.

The Autumn Garden (or Why I Plant)

We are in the thick of the autumn migration now. Warblers, flycatchers, other insect eating birds, raptors, hummingbirds, dragonflies, Monarchs are all making their way hundreds or even thousands of miles south to warmth and food as our northern regions freeze over, even as our native bee species continue feeding and reproducing while there is still time.

They come through, and sometimes pause, in our yard, finding an abundance of nectar and pollen, seeds, berries and insects and shelter to fuel them for the next leg of their journey.

This, above all other reasons, is why I plant. The hedgerow and gardens that surround our house I plant for beauty, of course, but even more, for a short while, to be a part of the lives of these small, courageous, holy creatures that fleetingly share my space.

Through these pictures, I invite you to share in it too.

 

 

Offerings

Sometimes words are not sufficient to capture the gifts

       of the season, nor the gratitude. These are my offerings.

 May they inspire you to notice the holiness of your moments on this cool, damp autumn day.

                                           Fruit and flowers

              Sages for the hummingbirds who have now moved on.

         Old outbuildings that now shelter our goats and chickens.

             The woods across the road whose color changes every day.

Subtle hues of the penstemon who will soon begin

                                 their long winter's nap.

      And a yard that, though past its blooming peak, is

   ripening seeds for all who will seek refuge

in the months to come.

May we each know the blessing of offering ourselves, each in our own unique way, to a world that so badly needs beauty and kindness in these troubled days.

Welcoming the Stranger

They passed through silently,

stealthily,

foraging for nourishment,
not knowing

I was watching.

On their way to Cuba, to Haiti and the Dominican Republic,

to Belize, to Honduras and Nicaragua,

and the mountains of Mexico,

days and days will they travel the skies,
feeding and sleeping 

in hopes of safety, 
against all odds, 

in hopes of arriving.

That they alight here at all is

a mutual gift, 

for them, sustenance among 
the flowers and the old apple tree,

for me,
the sheer delight of their
presence. 

I will never wing my way to
their destinations

and yet,
still,
I participate in

their journeys

in the planting,
in the loving,

in the gratitude.

 

In The Fullness of Time

 Sharing these thoughts is difficult in these days of ecological and man-made ruin. And yet, at the same time it feels right to acknowledge and be grateful that, in this small corner of the world, the land and its creatures continue on, for now, unimpeded. 

The chattering is non-stop,
recently fledged house wrens
congregating in the bushes,
asking their many questions
of the world.
The crickets' and katydids' song, 
emanating from the trees and old
fields that surround the house,
is constant, too,
enfolding,
like the Presence of God,
which, of course, it is.

Catbirds, readying to go,
gorge on the pokeberries
and this morning an unexpected
white-eyed vireo,
on his way to somewhere,
forages in the old apple tree,
gleaning from what this piece
of his world has
to offer.

Hummingbirds are on the jewelweed, 
their tiny tummies laying down the
fat that will fuel their long, 
upcoming journey
and
newly emerged Monarch's,
sipping from phlox and zinnias, 
prepare for a pilgrimage
that will take them
far into the
unknown.

All of us,
the wild things and I,
are waiting for what comes next.
And each of us,
the wild things and I,
are sustained
and supported
by the late-summer abundance
that has come
in the fullness
of time.

This Misty Morning

The fog is a blanket this morning,

shielding me, as I sit on the front porch,
from the curious eyes
of neighbors.
But I can see all that I wish to
of my world, shrouded 
in the mist and
the sounds of wild things.

The chipmunks seem in a determined frenzy, 
hurriedly stocking up on the seeds
that will see them through the winter, and
the landscape is painted with
muted golds and purples, as  
the orange coneflowers, 
the aromatic asters,
and the stalwart salvias bloom on, 
feeding lingering ruby-throats and
the myriad bumblebees still
buzzing through the gardens.

Against the backdrop of cricket's and katydid's
early autumn songs,
the first ruby-crowned kinglet and
purple finch appeared in the
old apple tree, 
the kinglet boldly flitting through
the branches, apparently finding enough
prey to make its foraging worthwhile,
the finch still, cautious and watchful,
carefully weighing the dangers of this 
unfamiliar landscape before
settling in at a feeder, 
eager to dine after its journey from
the north.

I am swathed in gratitude this morning.
All I did was place seeds and small plants
into the ground last spring and they,
of their own accord,
have erupted into bounty.
The Creator, who has  been thusly
providing for all of life in the same manner,
is smiling. 
And I am smiling too on this foggy
October morning, thankful to be
partners with God.

 

Saying Goodbye

They were here this morning, 
the young pileated woodpecker
and his mother,
chipping away at the old stump,
foraging for sustenance, 
for grubs, worms and borers,
foraging for what would be soon
no longer alive.

Today, we will say goodbye to our 
old dog, whose weary heart
is failing. So much of
life shared together,
memories etched into our
very hearts.
How difficult to let him go.

We will place him  
in the hedgerow, 
his body to nourish the 
young trees and shrubs that will
sustain the wild ones who come.

"Important work happens within us
when we stop and allow 
ourselves to be open." * 
And so, may I be open to
the deepening 
that comes with the
chosen acceptance
of grief.

* The Pilgrim Spirit, Andrea Skevington, pg. 20

Finding God

The light is slowly fading and dusk is soon is at hand as I sit on my front porch, listening to the end-of-day chorus of Carolina chickadees, titmice, cardinals, a Carolina wren, and a few remaining white throats. Perched in the tall trees surrounding the house, the Cope's grey tree frogs are noisily tuning up and soon I'll hear the bullfrogs in the nearby wetland, as well. The temperatures are cooling and it is time to sit and rest from the hot and sweaty, but immensely satisfying, earlier labor of planting tiny trees in the back section of the yard. All of them, flowering dogwood, red maple, black gum, red oak, and persimmon, began as seeds I collected and sowed in a propagation bed a couple of years ago, though I wasn't exactly sure what I would do with them once they germinated. 

As I sit in gratitude for the fragrances and songs of evening, I am pondering my work in the world, and in the local landscape in which I live...my life's work, really. Though, for these last few years, we have been so fortunate to live in a large swath of woodland, protected by federal scenic easements, I cannot help but embrace a sense of responsibility to this land and to the creatures who live here. Planting for insects, for pollinators of all kinds, for caterpillars who become the foundation of resident and migrant bird populations has become second nature. Planting native fruit and nut bearing tree and shrub species, though I may not live here long enough to see them bear, provides me the deep joy of knowing that the day will come when the local wildlife will benefit from my seeding experiment.

Recently, I was talking with my spiritual director (which is a topic for another day) and she asked me what I most want to do in life. And, without thinking, I blurted out, "I want to walk in the woods and plant things." And so, without really meaning to, I have come to live out my life's work one day at a time. And in living out that work, I have come to know God in the way that is most natural to me.  The ancient Celts believed that God did not create the world out of nothing, but that creation flowed out of Himself, thereby imparting a bit of God in all that is. I find a deep peace in recognizing not just His work, but that bit of Himself, in the woodlands around me, in the soil into which I put my hands, in the whispers of the wind and the frogs who will sing me to sleep tonight. 

May you, as you pay attention to what is around you, find Him too.