I retreated to my tiny garden yesterday to listen to the earth and to her unfurling. I raked and trimmed. I felt my mind go quiet behind the daffodils. Earth’s musty smell of brown and gray and green commingled freely. Branches, accented with new growth and edges of mossy-grass were combed over from relentless rain. Taupe stems of hollyhock bowed above spent lavender wands. All in the deepest of prayer. I walked softly between this sacred grave of dead and new until she began to translate.
“Our world is a ruptured spleen. There’s more than an undercurrent of angst. Many of us feel and hear it daily. Our world and its people are in profound pain. Even in silence there’s a pulse of anguish. Water has turned poisonous through the pipes of injustice. People are being fed lies. Leaders are fighting each other. Racism’s spirit remains deafeningly alive. However, others are being awakened and solidarity is being renewed. Trust, even the smallest of seeds planted will propagate into new.”
I stood in my tiny plot. A speck on this planet. All I could think of is the enormous responsibility to continue to connect and write and speak. My heart hurts and more tears come in my night and daydreams. However I know, as seasons change, all of this is a continuous rebirth of my soul’s deepest calling.