I had the great fortune to spend most of my day off today outside, working in the yard. I spent much of the day pruning back shrubs and weeding flowerbeds in preparation to plant some spring color and mulch. I take a lot of pleasure in cutting back plants after a harsh winter. This has not always been the case. I used to do it out of nothing more than necessity. I longed for all the lush greenery and brightly colored flowers and knew that pruning and prepping were the only way to make that happen. So I did it begrudgingly and judiciously. I didn't like pruning because it seemed so contrary to what I was actually trying to accomplish: more growth. It didn't take me too many winters and springs to realize I couldn't have the beauty without aggressively trimming off that which was dead or simply superfluous. All those leggy runners that were sucking life from the branches that could actually bear fruit needed to be lopped off, as did the dead stuff. And today I went at the shrubs and ferns and grasses with no mercy and knowing full well that for the next few weeks my back yard is not going to be all that lovely looking. And that's okay. I'm willing to endure awkward inbetween stages for the beauty I will soon enjoy. Fruit and flowers are going to burst forth much sooner than later, leaving this bare stage nothing more than a memory. Chances are it'll take the funny tan lines I acquired today longer to fade than the memory of this naked, bare moment in my garden's history. It is a funny thing how quickly we can forget.
And as I worked, often on bended knee today, I thought about the irony that this inbetween time in nature aligns so perfectly with the lenten season, the period in which I, as a believer, prepare myself to celebrate the ressurrection of Christ. I thought about how it all started in a garden. I thought about Jesus all alone, on his knees. There were tears. And sweat that fell as blood. There were questions which sprung from quivering lips, met only by the silence of darkness. I thought about the beginnings of my garden. How there was a time in my not so distant past when I thought there couldn't possibly be a future. I was alone. I was hurting and scared and I felt as if the ones closest to me had fallen asleep when I needed them to stand guard over my heart. I found myself alone and in need of solace so I went to the only place that made any kind of sense to me, the earth. I spent that season chopping, digging, letting dirt sift through my fingers. I planted little baby plants, all young and tender and full of potential--the very plants I pruned so aggressively today. I spent that season on bended knee most of the time. There was sweat. Some blood. But mostly tears. Lots of tears. But in time, there was beauty. It is a kind of beauty that continues to grow because I nurture it, and in season, I prune it. I have to stop and remind myself sometimes how we got here, to this beautiful place, a place that offers so much beauty and perspective. So much hope. So I go back periodically to where it all started. And as I remember, I'm reminded that it is a funny thing how quickly we can forget.
And as I worked, often on bended knee today, I thought about the irony that this inbetween time in nature aligns so perfectly with the lenten season, the period in which I, as a believer, prepare myself to celebrate the ressurrection of Christ. I thought about how it all started in a garden. I thought about Jesus all alone, on his knees. There were tears. And sweat that fell as blood. There were questions which sprung from quivering lips, met only by the silence of darkness. I thought about the beginnings of my garden. How there was a time in my not so distant past when I thought there couldn't possibly be a future. I was alone. I was hurting and scared and I felt as if the ones closest to me had fallen asleep when I needed them to stand guard over my heart. I found myself alone and in need of solace so I went to the only place that made any kind of sense to me, the earth. I spent that season chopping, digging, letting dirt sift through my fingers. I planted little baby plants, all young and tender and full of potential--the very plants I pruned so aggressively today. I spent that season on bended knee most of the time. There was sweat. Some blood. But mostly tears. Lots of tears. But in time, there was beauty. It is a kind of beauty that continues to grow because I nurture it, and in season, I prune it. I have to stop and remind myself sometimes how we got here, to this beautiful place, a place that offers so much beauty and perspective. So much hope. So I go back periodically to where it all started. And as I remember, I'm reminded that it is a funny thing how quickly we can forget.
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