To be human is about regaining what has been lost in the shuffle when life has been relegated to keeping score and making waves. To be human is about cultivating the good life. To be human is about gardening the soul.
Now my questions have begun to change:
Are there butterflies in your garden?
Are there dandelions in your lawn?
And when was the last time your house smelled of paper-white narcissus?
Do sunsets make you smile?
Have you ever seen a sunflower bloom?
At what angle does the sun enter your house?
And when do your irises blossom?
Are you comforted by the sound of the rain on your roof?
And have you ever watched the hummingbirds dance?
I love to watch the hummingbirds dance. And I love spring nights here. The days are already longer, the skies backlit until past nine. The backlighting gives the horizon its density. Off to the north sits Blake Island, home to nothing but cedar and hemlock and fir and a couple of eagles. In the dusk light, the island puts on a thickness as if the deep colors anchor it to the earth. I love that my two-year-old son likes to put on his dancing shoes. The music doesn’t matter. He’s not picky. He just loves to dance. Like the hummingbirds. I love to stretch out on a garden bench on a warm summer day. I love a hot shower and drying with an expensive oversized cotton towel. I treasure the certainty that grace gives us all many second chances. And I love to lose track of time in my garden.
There is a wondrous and incurable obsession, which takes you meandering to garden paths. Just for the sake of meandering. Of course, the obsessed tend toward jealous excess. I will be unable to hide my proclivity for the sacred necessity of Adirondack chairs, my infatuation with old garden roses, my enchantment with early summer’s butterfly cabaret, or my distrust of anyone who is put off by dirty fingernails. Just so you are fore-warned.