I’ve just been out puttering in the garden. It’s a holy place. Truly. This morning, I harvested dill, tucking it away in the freezer for when I want to make borscht; and parsley for soups when the weather turns. I planted another couple of rows of radishes, and just puttered. Pulling the odd weed, dead-heading calendula, and just basking in the miracle of our backyard space.
And then I saw this.
A tiny volunteer violet next to the Tiny Tim tomato plant, looking bright and brilliant and doing its job by sparking joy. It was a little gift.
Last fall, I saved seeds from what was, perhaps, a sister of this little plant that grew in the gravel next to the back step, and planted some in the hydroponic garden in my kitchen in the depth of winter. They grew, and—surprise of all surprises—the tiny flowers it presented were jet black. They delighted and puzzled us for weeks while they were in bloom.
See, this is the thing about a garden. Miracles abound when we pay attention and appear when we least expect them. It’s a life lesson I’ve learned to embrace. And when I see them, well, I feel like just about the richest woman in the world.