"We are more alike, my friends, than we are unalike." ~Maya Angelou

Wednesday, February 11, 2015

What's In A Name?

 Remember the garden project for last Spring and Summer?  It started with me wrestling with the design (and finally turning the math over to Zach to straighten out). Then the soil had to be amended in what would become the flower sections; materials were decided upon, purchased and delivered; electricity was brought into the center for the fountain; the digging and sawing commenced.

     I love it that all my children live nearby with their families.  I love it that they like, and are willing, to come out to the farm and help with projects. I believe working together helps bind us together.  It brings us together. I love this picture, above.  Everyone was here. You can't see them, but the Brendan, Maggie and Zane were off to the left, digging in the dirt with child sized shovels, stirring up the gardens.  Abbey was inside fixing lunch and watching over a napper, bringing us water and tea.

                                                                                                                Back to the story.
     I went ahead and planted the beds despite the lack of paths, patio or some of the boards at the time, knowing how long things take. We worked around the growing green. Maggie hand-painted some flags to fly above our bamboo Morning Glory tipis. I laid down a drip watering system. The kids drove Frances' little red wheelbarrow round and round, carrying bricks and dirt here and there; helping.

     We came round the corner of the season and entered September. A wedding was approaching; the dinner scheduled for the farm.  The new garden needed a fence and a completed center. I called someone recommended by a friend and he gave me an estimate. I accepted.
      Three days later it was finished. Amazing what throwing a little cash at something can accomplish.
Now, in the middle of the winter, the garden is bleak, to say the least. The tipi is hung with dead vines. The little boy still gazes at a jar containing a faux firefly. The garden is asleep.
      I have struggled to find the name for this space.  Is it a peace garden? A meditation garden? A contemplation garden? It doesn't need a name, not really. It is. When you step into it you know what it is. I simply call it a garden now, a place out of the wind where I can breathe and regroup. Often, I come out in the starlight and walk the circuit, compass point to compass point, holding those I love and the good earth in my heart.

        Last week someone came by for a visit and to address the problem with the beavers along the creek.  It turns out these beavers are wanderers, coming and going through the area, and not many of them at that. He said there might be two or three. I am to call him back out when I see new activity.

    The beavers are beside the point.  The reason I bring all this up is this: The man, I discovered, was seeking the heart of the sacred, as so many are these days; hungering for more than is being offered in the traditional church at this time. We talked for awhile.  He admired the new fence and, stepping under the trellis, walked out onto the octagonal path. With a slow, widening smile he turned to me and said, "This is a prayer garden." Yes it is.

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