I spend a couple of hours in the garden, pondering, imagining, making decisions, and tossing tiny seeds in the ground. I’m toting tomato and pepper plants outside every day and bringing them back in the house in the early evening. There are seed packets in my purse, and basil growing in my laundry room. These, all sure signs that gardening season is underway.
It is the season of truth, the season of wonder. The season of waiting, the season of tending. The season of vegetables.
It always amazes me to look at the little, wrinkled brown seeds and think of the rainbows in ’em,” said Captain Jim. “When I ponder on them seeds I don’t find it nowise hard to believe that we’ve got souls that’ll live in other worlds. You couldn’t hardly believe there was life in them tiny things, some no bigger than grains of dust, let alone colour and scent, if you hadn’t seen the miracle, could you?”
L. M. Montgomery, Anne’s House of Dreams
At home, my doors and windows are open. My back deck is set up as a sanctuary. My front flower bed is producing tiny blossoms that invite me to sit on the grass and lean in close with my macro lens.
Parks beckon, sunrises welcome, and I shrug comfortably into days with no commitments.
Books arrive, I sit on the deck, and I work on my manuscript.
I chew on truth, I listen to birds, and I’m satisfied with solitude and silence.
I think about what it means to be loved. Beloved. I think a lot about that.
And I am content.
So good. I think about these very same things.