there is a place where the sacred is unsafe
the holy burns,
and unsinged we dare to ask if we are secure
we think we purify ourselves
by removing our shoes
never thinking we stand a world apart
paperthin
between this world and the next
where our clay-frail bodies one day will shatter
like the stars
the dead sloughed off
shines nova-bright, now--
how unsafe it is to be burned down
only to be consumed again by holy fire
we shatter
Showing posts with label create. Show all posts
Showing posts with label create. Show all posts
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
A Girl Named Fragile, A Parable
this is my first bit of fiction. i'm afraid to share it, yet knowing it is imperfect, i feel emily's is where it belongs for a spell.
once there was a girl who lived in a Dark Wood, only she didn't know it was dark because she'd never seen the light. She came of age and chose to travel--she wanted to know what went beyond the trees. she came upon a forked path, and having never left her little yard, was forced to choose one way. she chose blindly, as one must always do in the Dark. little did she know that one path led further into the wood and the deep dark, and the one she chose led towards Beyond. as she walked and walked, little golden beams sometimes showed through the canopy of branches, and she felt a prickling sensation when she stepped into the little puddles of brightness. she was being introduced to Light, and she felt she loved him. by the time the last tree was behind her, and she walked openly in the well-lit Beyond, Fragile felt she'd known Light all along. in fact, she thought she'd seen glimpses of him even in her Dark Wood; had he not been in the fire where she cooked her meal and warmed herself? had he not been in the stars where she imagined her friends? yes, he'd been quiet and unnamed, but he'd been there. yes, she loved this golden Sun.
But one day, it felt too immense, too surreal--perhaps she was dreaming and it was still Dark. thus, she was introduced to Fear, and he wooed her for some time. Fear introduced her to his friend Anger, and he was so seductive, so beguiling. he made her feel safe and made her forget Fear's cold hands. she also forgot the warmth of the Light she'd loved once. Fragile and Anger journeyed for years together. he taught her the meaning of her name and how to abuse it. little by little, cracks were appearing all over, though Fragile wasn't aware of her changed appearance. what she did know was that she was getting weary, often having no strength for more than a day or two at a time on her journey. Anger became impatient with her, and so she became impatient with herself. the fissures were getting bigger, and now that Fragile saw them, she wondered what was wrong with her-why was she breaking? Anger didn't notice the cracks; in fact, he didn't notice Fragile at all anymore. Depression met them then, and she took Fragile's hands in hers, hugged her tight and whispered lies. "you were happier in the Dark, weren't you? the Light is making you ugly because if you were in the Dark you wouldn't even be able to see them. you deserve the pain you feel and inflict on others-wasn't it you who kept Anger all these years?" Depression's sister Loneliness visited often, and Anger kept his distance but followed still.
Fragile was more tired than ever, and the cracks began to hurt. she wished for Peace. she didn't know who he was, only that she'd dreamt of him long ago when dancing in the sunbeams in the forest. she wondered if Peace could ever find her. she went to sleep that night flanked by Anger, Depression, and Loneliness. She wished she'd never wake up; maybe that way she'd find Peace. In her sleep she dreamed a child named Hope cried. When Fragile asked why she was crying, she merely cried some more. waking up and confused by the dream, it took a moment for Fragile to realize someone was watching her. it was the child Hope. "you! i dreamed you were crying! why would such a beautiful child cry?" the child answered quietly, "i was waiting for you." Hope then introduced Fragile to her companion who came forward, Peace. Fragile looked around for Anger, Depression, and Loneliness, but to her surprise they were gone.
Fragile walked with Hope and Peace and asked what more they could possibly see in the Beyond. they arrived then at a castle ruins, and she was told it was the most precious thing in all the land. "but it's just an old broken castle," Fragile muttered, disappointed. "not, 'just.' it is also the house of the sun, and you are welcome." indeed, the castle was aglow, and from it shined the Light she'd once known so intimately. a tear trickled down her cheek as she whispered, "im sorry i forgot you on the way." upon entering the hall, the castle righted itself and transformed into its glory, and she was asked to bathe in the fountain of life. she did so, half-thinking her cracks would disappear, but when she emerged she was no different. Light took her hand and led her to his great mirror. "what do you see?" he asked. in it, she saw her travels with Fear, Anger, Depression, and Loneliness, and her short time with Peace and Hope, and she said, "i see Fragile." "no, my child, that is not who i see. look again. i see Treasure." she asked Light "why did i have to break, then?" "look again." this time when Fragile looked in the mirror she saw what Peace had seen and called Beauty and what Hope saw and called Worth waiting for. looking into the Sun's mirror, all she could see was the Light shining. she realized if she'd never been broken, she'd never have seen the Light inside her.
once there was a girl who lived in a Dark Wood, only she didn't know it was dark because she'd never seen the light. She came of age and chose to travel--she wanted to know what went beyond the trees. she came upon a forked path, and having never left her little yard, was forced to choose one way. she chose blindly, as one must always do in the Dark. little did she know that one path led further into the wood and the deep dark, and the one she chose led towards Beyond. as she walked and walked, little golden beams sometimes showed through the canopy of branches, and she felt a prickling sensation when she stepped into the little puddles of brightness. she was being introduced to Light, and she felt she loved him. by the time the last tree was behind her, and she walked openly in the well-lit Beyond, Fragile felt she'd known Light all along. in fact, she thought she'd seen glimpses of him even in her Dark Wood; had he not been in the fire where she cooked her meal and warmed herself? had he not been in the stars where she imagined her friends? yes, he'd been quiet and unnamed, but he'd been there. yes, she loved this golden Sun.
But one day, it felt too immense, too surreal--perhaps she was dreaming and it was still Dark. thus, she was introduced to Fear, and he wooed her for some time. Fear introduced her to his friend Anger, and he was so seductive, so beguiling. he made her feel safe and made her forget Fear's cold hands. she also forgot the warmth of the Light she'd loved once. Fragile and Anger journeyed for years together. he taught her the meaning of her name and how to abuse it. little by little, cracks were appearing all over, though Fragile wasn't aware of her changed appearance. what she did know was that she was getting weary, often having no strength for more than a day or two at a time on her journey. Anger became impatient with her, and so she became impatient with herself. the fissures were getting bigger, and now that Fragile saw them, she wondered what was wrong with her-why was she breaking? Anger didn't notice the cracks; in fact, he didn't notice Fragile at all anymore. Depression met them then, and she took Fragile's hands in hers, hugged her tight and whispered lies. "you were happier in the Dark, weren't you? the Light is making you ugly because if you were in the Dark you wouldn't even be able to see them. you deserve the pain you feel and inflict on others-wasn't it you who kept Anger all these years?" Depression's sister Loneliness visited often, and Anger kept his distance but followed still.
Fragile was more tired than ever, and the cracks began to hurt. she wished for Peace. she didn't know who he was, only that she'd dreamt of him long ago when dancing in the sunbeams in the forest. she wondered if Peace could ever find her. she went to sleep that night flanked by Anger, Depression, and Loneliness. She wished she'd never wake up; maybe that way she'd find Peace. In her sleep she dreamed a child named Hope cried. When Fragile asked why she was crying, she merely cried some more. waking up and confused by the dream, it took a moment for Fragile to realize someone was watching her. it was the child Hope. "you! i dreamed you were crying! why would such a beautiful child cry?" the child answered quietly, "i was waiting for you." Hope then introduced Fragile to her companion who came forward, Peace. Fragile looked around for Anger, Depression, and Loneliness, but to her surprise they were gone.
Fragile walked with Hope and Peace and asked what more they could possibly see in the Beyond. they arrived then at a castle ruins, and she was told it was the most precious thing in all the land. "but it's just an old broken castle," Fragile muttered, disappointed. "not, 'just.' it is also the house of the sun, and you are welcome." indeed, the castle was aglow, and from it shined the Light she'd once known so intimately. a tear trickled down her cheek as she whispered, "im sorry i forgot you on the way." upon entering the hall, the castle righted itself and transformed into its glory, and she was asked to bathe in the fountain of life. she did so, half-thinking her cracks would disappear, but when she emerged she was no different. Light took her hand and led her to his great mirror. "what do you see?" he asked. in it, she saw her travels with Fear, Anger, Depression, and Loneliness, and her short time with Peace and Hope, and she said, "i see Fragile." "no, my child, that is not who i see. look again. i see Treasure." she asked Light "why did i have to break, then?" "look again." this time when Fragile looked in the mirror she saw what Peace had seen and called Beauty and what Hope saw and called Worth waiting for. looking into the Sun's mirror, all she could see was the Light shining. she realized if she'd never been broken, she'd never have seen the Light inside her.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
432(1)
today is a day-
the last day-
i have four,
all stepped down
one from the other
by a single year.
this is the day so little
separates
them
but the year in which
they were loved alive.
shea is oldest, still 4
his daddy-broad shoulders
carrying the weight of the world
of little brothers
and wearing his mama-freckles
brightly asking of the world
all whys.
and
connor is middlest, still 3
with blonde ragamuffin
(i love that grace the best)
and eyes blue as a promise
that impish will and
push back against the grain
the strain of nots.
and avery is today's child, 2
finally out of ones,
and he is all brawn and laughs
and head full of cherub curls
intensity's child, he.
and lastbutnotleast owen is still just one
month (ok, and a half)
and he is quieting extension
of mama, still breast-close in all wonder.
thank you, Father,
for sons a heritage and ours a full house.
happy birthday, beautiful avery!
linking for the first time in ages with emily and others
the last day-
i have four,
all stepped down
one from the other
by a single year.
this is the day so little
separates
them
but the year in which
they were loved alive.
shea is oldest, still 4
his daddy-broad shoulders
carrying the weight of the world
of little brothers
and wearing his mama-freckles
brightly asking of the world
all whys.
and
connor is middlest, still 3
with blonde ragamuffin
(i love that grace the best)
and eyes blue as a promise
that impish will and
push back against the grain
the strain of nots.
and avery is today's child, 2
finally out of ones,
and he is all brawn and laughs
and head full of cherub curls
intensity's child, he.
and lastbutnotleast owen is still just one
month (ok, and a half)
and he is quieting extension
of mama, still breast-close in all wonder.
thank you, Father,
for sons a heritage and ours a full house.
happy birthday, beautiful avery!
linking for the first time in ages with emily and others
Sunday, May 8, 2011
The scribbling
it's all in the scribbles, isn't it, this mother-love?
it's waking up, wishing to have newest here, him having planned nothing because we have hinged all hope on meeting tiny one; he's so afraid i'm disappointed, and i am, but only because wee one isn't here. he helped the boys scribble mother's day notes, and i couldn't be happier, couldn't be more excited about the little hands i've helped co-create, those little hands wrapped around sharpie markers, the scribbles of their little lives telling my story of grace to all who have eyes to see.
we scribble in this day-to-day. we scratch our puny efforts, all this mothering with eyes cried dry and arms stretched world-wide-love around these little ones. it's not the majestic hands of adam and God in michelangelo's painting; it's the chubby, dimpled hands of fat crayons making sense of a world perceived in young faith. yes, the lines go 'round and 'round most times, and maybe it's all the same color instead of utilizing vast palette. we can get bored with the monochromatic nonsense, or we can find grace in the intricate shapes that emerge.
and they always do, those shapes... i see the shape of lover's body imprinted into mine, even swollen as i am. i see the shape of my mother's hands who began me years ago. i see the shape of other women in this one-village, the knit-together of souls and geese, the lifting of prayers and laying on of christ-hands. motherhood is nothing but shapes and scribbles, our breathing out the honesty of failure and fruitless effort that imbibed with his grace turns to miracle of Testimony.
i am so thankful to be scribbling these 3-point-nine (!!) baby boys. i pray internal one emerges soon, and pray for my three little outside loves to know the weight of grace.
it's waking up, wishing to have newest here, him having planned nothing because we have hinged all hope on meeting tiny one; he's so afraid i'm disappointed, and i am, but only because wee one isn't here. he helped the boys scribble mother's day notes, and i couldn't be happier, couldn't be more excited about the little hands i've helped co-create, those little hands wrapped around sharpie markers, the scribbles of their little lives telling my story of grace to all who have eyes to see.
we scribble in this day-to-day. we scratch our puny efforts, all this mothering with eyes cried dry and arms stretched world-wide-love around these little ones. it's not the majestic hands of adam and God in michelangelo's painting; it's the chubby, dimpled hands of fat crayons making sense of a world perceived in young faith. yes, the lines go 'round and 'round most times, and maybe it's all the same color instead of utilizing vast palette. we can get bored with the monochromatic nonsense, or we can find grace in the intricate shapes that emerge.
and they always do, those shapes... i see the shape of lover's body imprinted into mine, even swollen as i am. i see the shape of my mother's hands who began me years ago. i see the shape of other women in this one-village, the knit-together of souls and geese, the lifting of prayers and laying on of christ-hands. motherhood is nothing but shapes and scribbles, our breathing out the honesty of failure and fruitless effort that imbibed with his grace turns to miracle of Testimony.
i am so thankful to be scribbling these 3-point-nine (!!) baby boys. i pray internal one emerges soon, and pray for my three little outside loves to know the weight of grace.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Towards a spring theology
she played hooky from work yesterday and we talked long and fast, our nature. she wanted to call just to say the bluebonnets are there. i've written of them before, how they helped this lonely soul see Him again. spring always refreshes, and i adore memphis in spring (which is why i missed it so hard!). bradford pears have changed lacy shawl to summer-green and japanese magnolias have dropped their magenta petals. in their wake, the remaining cherries, the dogwoods of easter promises, redbuds, and wisteria so haunting to make me weep. these are gifts i unwrap every errand, every excuse to drive, and i feel that winter thaw again.
~~~
we played hooky from bible study this morning, she needing work done, and i just eager to go over later and play. lunches packed and chocolate delivered, and we talk and love each other with skin on, and i think, "home: friends. true spring. my boys singing walkin' to memphis [sic]."
~~~
i received excellent news yesterday that has assuaged so many fears and relieved some pressure; good medical reports often do. this wee one inside--so heavy and low!--seems protected from the diabetic complications i had with my last pregnancy. i am still on the diabetic side, but so close as to be borderline. unfortunately, my current OB is still pushing for many extra measures, but i feel confident to deny them safely. it is yet another blessing, this prayer being answered so mightily.
i hate that it's so easy to trust and enjoy when the winds are calm instead of storming. spring is both, though, eh? all this new green and pale palette and then the rains that chase the petals from stems. all this creation sprung from the same hand: my sister and i tightly joined in womb to love across all this distance just to share a flower; the beauty that revives me every spring; the visible answer to prayer to mark His hand this day, and even the storm that raged internal last week and that rained out his soccer game on sunday.
Thank You, Lord, for this hands-on love, this spring of rains and the Eternal water of life.
linking with my lovely friend, suzannah, for her ShoutLaughLove. come along?
lt;center>
~~~
we played hooky from bible study this morning, she needing work done, and i just eager to go over later and play. lunches packed and chocolate delivered, and we talk and love each other with skin on, and i think, "home: friends. true spring. my boys singing walkin' to memphis [sic]."
~~~
i received excellent news yesterday that has assuaged so many fears and relieved some pressure; good medical reports often do. this wee one inside--so heavy and low!--seems protected from the diabetic complications i had with my last pregnancy. i am still on the diabetic side, but so close as to be borderline. unfortunately, my current OB is still pushing for many extra measures, but i feel confident to deny them safely. it is yet another blessing, this prayer being answered so mightily.
i hate that it's so easy to trust and enjoy when the winds are calm instead of storming. spring is both, though, eh? all this new green and pale palette and then the rains that chase the petals from stems. all this creation sprung from the same hand: my sister and i tightly joined in womb to love across all this distance just to share a flower; the beauty that revives me every spring; the visible answer to prayer to mark His hand this day, and even the storm that raged internal last week and that rained out his soccer game on sunday.
Thank You, Lord, for this hands-on love, this spring of rains and the Eternal water of life.
linking with my lovely friend, suzannah, for her ShoutLaughLove. come along?
lt;center>
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Some hope, restored
i think a broken hallelujah is the only kind there is:
the one of splintered hearts
shy good-byes, and journeys
starting with a single step,
slouching towards bethlehem, as she says.
but it's true.
we can slouch. that's all,
and wait at broken earth, under cross's shadow
and
whisper, "today i am broken.
tomorrow, will you break me
again?"
lips dry and cracked under desert sun
throat or soul more parched than last
and
all that's left is a poet without words
a singer without melody
a craftsman without his tools
all, breaking hallelujah in bread
and wine
and self
i wrote this poem a couple of weeks ago, but after the hopelessness i felt yesterday, it felt very appropriate to link up to emily's imperfect prose. i'm imperfect indeed, but that's where His beauty fills and makes whole.
the one of splintered hearts
shy good-byes, and journeys
starting with a single step,
slouching towards bethlehem, as she says.
but it's true.
we can slouch. that's all,
and wait at broken earth, under cross's shadow
and
whisper, "today i am broken.
tomorrow, will you break me
again?"
lips dry and cracked under desert sun
throat or soul more parched than last
and
all that's left is a poet without words
a singer without melody
a craftsman without his tools
all, breaking hallelujah in bread
and wine
and self
i wrote this poem a couple of weeks ago, but after the hopelessness i felt yesterday, it felt very appropriate to link up to emily's imperfect prose. i'm imperfect indeed, but that's where His beauty fills and makes whole.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Counting home
there is a coming home in his arms
where the world is only ours.
we count dreams together,
he and i,
and marvel at how our family grows.
we swell again,
our last, and
promise one another to remember every moment
(you think you will, but you don't
unless you try)
and so we wait,
breathless and hope-full
for this new life
counting us,
our home.
~~~~~
full of joy, i count my way towards a thousand gifts, along with ann and the gratitude community.
172. for my husband, my beloved whom i call home
174. for three beautiful boys, all opposite me
175. the hope and joy of another one on the way
176. and REALLY not caring if it's team pink or blue
177. for telling mom for the first time ever that i thought we were expecting, small, huge!
178. for being my "perfect" number, God allowing
179. for other expecting sister (of twins!) getting some relief from her preterm contractions
180. and the babies' continued safety as they stay inside
181. for conviction to eat well this time, hoping to avoid our nicu stay from last time
182. and bacon! (our family is 99% vegetarian, but oh, to eat bacon again now that i have to obey my diabetic diet)
183. for daydreaming about names--one of my favorite parts!
184. for knowing that children are a heritage
where the world is only ours.
we count dreams together,
he and i,
and marvel at how our family grows.
we swell again,
our last, and
promise one another to remember every moment
(you think you will, but you don't
unless you try)
and so we wait,
breathless and hope-full
for this new life
counting us,
our home.
~~~~~
full of joy, i count my way towards a thousand gifts, along with ann and the gratitude community.
172. for my husband, my beloved whom i call home
174. for three beautiful boys, all opposite me
175. the hope and joy of another one on the way
176. and REALLY not caring if it's team pink or blue
177. for telling mom for the first time ever that i thought we were expecting, small, huge!
178. for being my "perfect" number, God allowing
179. for other expecting sister (of twins!) getting some relief from her preterm contractions
180. and the babies' continued safety as they stay inside
181. for conviction to eat well this time, hoping to avoid our nicu stay from last time
182. and bacon! (our family is 99% vegetarian, but oh, to eat bacon again now that i have to obey my diabetic diet)
183. for daydreaming about names--one of my favorite parts!
184. for knowing that children are a heritage
Friday, September 10, 2010
Extravagant
i didn't know i was worth that to you
didn't know you'd lavish me and ravish me
and leave me wanting more
didn't know you were all i had
or all i ever wanted
and i clumsily ate leftovers
of another kind.
not knowing you were there
the whole time
i didn't understand
i was made for you
and that you loved me
with your life
by giving your life to me
and i lived my life for me
and ate those stale remnants
those vestiges of selfishness
and you were waiting
extravagantly
for me
arms wide open
a feast just for me
because it was all
part of the price
no one course deserved
i couldn't possibly save enough
do enough
or work hard enough
to earn your love
you grace me with it daily
didn't know you'd lavish me and ravish me
and leave me wanting more
didn't know you were all i had
or all i ever wanted
and i clumsily ate leftovers
of another kind.
not knowing you were there
the whole time
i didn't understand
i was made for you
and that you loved me
with your life
by giving your life to me
and i lived my life for me
and ate those stale remnants
those vestiges of selfishness
and you were waiting
extravagantly
for me
arms wide open
a feast just for me
because it was all
part of the price
no one course deserved
i couldn't possibly save enough
do enough
or work hard enough
to earn your love
you grace me with it daily
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
An ode to motherhood
multilayered
no one tells you how mothering splays your insides open,
like that frog in 6th grade science, stretched and pinned,
girls ewwing and boys high-fiving.
no one shares how inside you're all knotted up,
wondering when you will be normal again,
when you'll wake up and the dream is a happy one.
sure, they tell you "children are your heart walking around on the outside"
but you didn't think they actually meant it.
and they are.
you can peel back the looking at him as if he's an alien
and underneath you find all your childhood insecurity.
or, you see yourself as you want to be seen,
those mommy comparisons starving you to death.
you see how vulnerable you both are and how strong you both will be
if,
always the conditional
til one day, you hit a stride you never saw coming and
you think to yourself
i love this gig, screeching mike, poor acoustics, tough audience and all
this is a slightly edited repost from my create tab (which i'm now actually working on removing after incorporating them into posts because i don't like the way they're all tucked away in the raw like that!). please join us over at suzannah's!
no one tells you how mothering splays your insides open,
like that frog in 6th grade science, stretched and pinned,
girls ewwing and boys high-fiving.
no one shares how inside you're all knotted up,
wondering when you will be normal again,
when you'll wake up and the dream is a happy one.
sure, they tell you "children are your heart walking around on the outside"
but you didn't think they actually meant it.
and they are.
you can peel back the looking at him as if he's an alien
and underneath you find all your childhood insecurity.
or, you see yourself as you want to be seen,
those mommy comparisons starving you to death.
you see how vulnerable you both are and how strong you both will be
if,
always the conditional
til one day, you hit a stride you never saw coming and
you think to yourself
i love this gig, screeching mike, poor acoustics, tough audience and all
this is a slightly edited repost from my create tab (which i'm now actually working on removing after incorporating them into posts because i don't like the way they're all tucked away in the raw like that!). please join us over at suzannah's!
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Grow
i wrote this piece as a creativity boot camp challenge word prompt, but wanted to actually feature it here and not just under my create page.
mama was a natural despite being as northern-bred and citified as they come. she made plenty of mistakes early on, like the time she put a whole cup of sugar in the greens instead of just a tablespoon. granny b sure cackled at that and my dad wore his bemused expression which looks an awful lot like his annoyed expression.
she'd never canned before, but after that garden with more corn and tomatoes than we knew what to do with (and more shucking than i'd ever hoped to do again), she had so many rows of red the color of july, all lined up neat, brass rims a smart salute to her success.
and flowers, too, responded to her touch. she weeded to forget the hour-long commute to work, and she watered to forget the politics of an office. river rocks lined the pathway, and her little pond bubbled and shimmered fleeting gold below. she had primroses she transplanted from meemee's kentucky farm, all the assorted annual color she could find, and a few haphazard succulents for humor. we never wondered at the love she had for that garden.
i didn't love the idea of gardening until i lived with meg--and even then i never really asked her to teach me what she knew. i always assumed there'd be plenty of time to learn by osmosis. she had a different love for the garden, one that reveled in the sheer work of it, of the hands dirty and shade hat pulled tight and low, and the lawn immaculate, not just to HOA standards but to her own.
she shared her garden with gale who lived next door, and they separated too-thick day lillies and let sweet william grow all over the place, and waited breathlessly for the don juans to scent the air. meg always wished the peonies on her side would do as well as gale's, and gale always wished her quince would produce any fruit at all.
she gave me the ficus tree she'd had for years before i knew her, a beloved weeping benjamin. i threw it in the trash heap outside last weekend, its branches dry and brittle from too many forgotten waterings and too many grubby fingers snapping twigs and pulling on roots. the tree had died on my watch. she used to hang the jesse tree ornaments for her boys growing up, and my ornaments are still wrapped away, waiting til the boys are old enough not to tear them up. there's no place to hang them now.
we've always rented, and so i've never really taken time to rake soil and sow tender shoots, but i dream. i dream of a garden that i can fill with edible bounty and find treasure for the three boys that have grown inside of me and are growing outside of me. i pore over burpee catalogs and wistfully sigh at the jackson and perkins roses, but i have no garden, and no one close by to teach me to till the land.
i haven't been to mama's house in seven years. i lived with meg for only three, but we talk weekly and she asks after my little seedlings, those boys of big feet and tall stature and loud laughs that mama has never known. and i wonder what kind of garden i will grow. who will teach me?
mama was a natural despite being as northern-bred and citified as they come. she made plenty of mistakes early on, like the time she put a whole cup of sugar in the greens instead of just a tablespoon. granny b sure cackled at that and my dad wore his bemused expression which looks an awful lot like his annoyed expression.
she'd never canned before, but after that garden with more corn and tomatoes than we knew what to do with (and more shucking than i'd ever hoped to do again), she had so many rows of red the color of july, all lined up neat, brass rims a smart salute to her success.
and flowers, too, responded to her touch. she weeded to forget the hour-long commute to work, and she watered to forget the politics of an office. river rocks lined the pathway, and her little pond bubbled and shimmered fleeting gold below. she had primroses she transplanted from meemee's kentucky farm, all the assorted annual color she could find, and a few haphazard succulents for humor. we never wondered at the love she had for that garden.
i didn't love the idea of gardening until i lived with meg--and even then i never really asked her to teach me what she knew. i always assumed there'd be plenty of time to learn by osmosis. she had a different love for the garden, one that reveled in the sheer work of it, of the hands dirty and shade hat pulled tight and low, and the lawn immaculate, not just to HOA standards but to her own.
she shared her garden with gale who lived next door, and they separated too-thick day lillies and let sweet william grow all over the place, and waited breathlessly for the don juans to scent the air. meg always wished the peonies on her side would do as well as gale's, and gale always wished her quince would produce any fruit at all.
she gave me the ficus tree she'd had for years before i knew her, a beloved weeping benjamin. i threw it in the trash heap outside last weekend, its branches dry and brittle from too many forgotten waterings and too many grubby fingers snapping twigs and pulling on roots. the tree had died on my watch. she used to hang the jesse tree ornaments for her boys growing up, and my ornaments are still wrapped away, waiting til the boys are old enough not to tear them up. there's no place to hang them now.
we've always rented, and so i've never really taken time to rake soil and sow tender shoots, but i dream. i dream of a garden that i can fill with edible bounty and find treasure for the three boys that have grown inside of me and are growing outside of me. i pore over burpee catalogs and wistfully sigh at the jackson and perkins roses, but i have no garden, and no one close by to teach me to till the land.
i haven't been to mama's house in seven years. i lived with meg for only three, but we talk weekly and she asks after my little seedlings, those boys of big feet and tall stature and loud laughs that mama has never known. and i wonder what kind of garden i will grow. who will teach me?
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