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.