It is 22 degrees Celsius in our backyard (that’s 72 degree Fahrenheit for my friends in the United States), the warmest day so far this year. The gardening bug nipped me when I discovered that the soil in the raised gardens is workable, and I set to work drafting a plan for the nine beds. I’m itching to push the season and plant cool weather things like spinach, radishes, and peas but need to amend the soil first. Patience. The first lesson from the garden this year.
I’m hopeful now that we’re at the start of another gardening season. Like the rhythm of the church calendar (Palm Sunday is coming up already?!), the cadence of planning, planting, tending, harvesting, and resting that the garden offers provides structure I can count on. I can go there when things outside the sphere of my control disturb my peace, and watch miracles happen as tiny become plants and flowers and food. What a grace.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about young me—before marriage, kids, and all that led up to those things. She spent hours at a typewriter tapping out words on yellow newsprint, reading the same dog-eared copies of Writer’s Digest over and over and again, thinking things through and dreaming of possibility. Sometimes, I miss her.
Or, said differently and with more accuracy, I miss her focus. Those days were far from perfect. I was a hexagonal peg that kinda fit, but not really. I was restless and wanted to get going at life, but uncertain of the next step. Yet, in the stillness of my solitude, I was strong. I wrote and I read and I didn’t give two figs for anything that was outside of my immediate awareness. Missteps would come and course corrections would be executed, but I’d never get back the clear, quiet focus I had as a young woman before the distractions of the world claimed my attention.
This year, I’ve heeded an invitation to tweak my rhythm, pull back from things that don’t align with the intention I set in January, and wander paths where I feel curious and comfortable to tread gently and live into the questions. In a sense, I’m reclaiming that focus.
Wisdom is the art of living in rhythm with your soul, your life, and the divine.
John O’Donohue
It’s been a tough first quarter of this year. When someone you love deeply is hurting, you hurt and your sense of powerlessness can cause all many things to rise to the surface. In December, I started noticing there were days when I was on the verge of tears for no particular reason. Those days still come. I’ve realized the why.
Many years ago, when I wasn’t coping well with life, my doctor sent me to stress management classes. The main thing I remember from those sessions is this: the key to stress management is learning to relax so you can build your physical and emotional reserves to meet the next challenge.
I’ve tried to let those words, as well as wisdom gleaned from M. Scott Peck’s bestselling book, The Road Less Traveled (beginning with the short, simple but wholly accurate first sentence—Life is difficult), guide me throughout my life.
But I’ve got a propensity to forget. Sometimes I need to sit myself down and have a talk.
First, and this is of utmost importance, stop believing that life is going to be easy and that everyone else has their poop in a group that’s tidier and less pungent than yours. Life is, and always has been, tough. For everyone.
Second, build resilience when life is going well by filling your time and giving your attention to things that nourish your soul, serve those who are in your sphere of influence, and are true to you as a beloved child of the divine. Lean in to those practices when it’s a struggle. Open your hands and release the rest.
More and more, I’m replacing time I used to spend on consuming news or scrolling on social media with longer-form reading (thank you Substack writers), books, contemplation, painting, photography. Gardening is a welcome addition to the mix.
Life is difficult. Learn what it takes to increase your personal capacity for well-being and do more of those things. Sometimes (often), do nothing. Let go of what no longer serves you.
It sounds so simple, but it’s anything but. We try, we fall, we remind ourselves of what we need, and we (I) begin again.
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