Flower Garden

The small flower bed near my front door is a wild mess. It doesn’t look like much and I don’t fuss with it. I’m more of a vegetable gardener than a flower gardener.

It’s the harbinger of spring when the first purple crocus pokes up its brave head. In the fall I pull frost-killed plants and the ground lies bare in resignation to the looming cold, dark months. It sleeps under a blanket of snow and the cycle begins again.

A changing palette—purple fragrant hyacinth, orange lilies, red poppies, and now, lavender, bright yellow calendula, and pink cosmos—fills the space. I could do more with the space if I was so inclined. But I’m not, and it’s enough.

Sometimes I sit on the ground in front of it with my camera. I’m transported to the wonder of the macro world in quiet meditation as I take photos. I see the Divine in that little messy flower garden.

 

Word wrangler. Photo taker. I'm here early most mornings with one of my photos and a few words about life and those thin places where faith intersects.
1 comment
  1. It sounds delightful, with those glorious flowers popping up and seeding themselves … Perhaps you could gently let the word ‘messy’ go? It seems deserving of more praise than this :).

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