I walk my property this morning, looking at what’s growing, what I’ve trimmed, what’s in need of much attention. I spend a moment with a tiny white flowering plant I must have planted a year or two ago and thought it was an annual. It’s made it back and lies nestled amidst mostly weeds in what is unkempt, in progress. Beginning, middle, end.
Uneven divisions of dirt and soil, pebbles and remnants of mulch outline the almost indiscernible difference between one plant and the next.
Dew drops on leaves of bushes needing pruning, still perfect. It seems most of the birds are singing and blend together, yet I can hear certain whistles or chirps as they call out. One of my favorites, the Cardinal, sings perched nearby in a loved tree that was almost cut down. Beautiful new growth springs up its trunk. The dead branches at the top provide birds a vantage point from which they can watch me, watching them. This Cardinal and I admire one another.
My neatly trimmed lawn, that I cut just so, like a canvas laid out. Oh, weeds and flowers and bushes and pile of dead branches, soaring and searching and perching birds in song, stack of rocks, gardens in need of care, you make so much sense on these grounds in need of repair.
Persistence of nature that the work is never done, and the beauty always there.
My toes wet against the morning grass, already bright summer sun on my skin.
I’ll turn towards a list of tasks and a computer and numbers and plans to make just so. They may blossom. They may fade.
And in my own journey of overturning the soil to see what new may grow, my hands get wearied at times. Stretching out to lessen the tightness and work the ground.
I am aware of all these things. I catch my breath in the anticipation of what I do not know and must begin. These hands have grown stronger with the lifting, but there is a weariness in my being too.