“The Sky is Low…”
this weekend after a great youth retreat, I’m on a third cup of coffee, and my
kids and I crowd close around the computer screen to watch a science dvd. We
munch carrots, pop salted green edamame beans, and chew whole wheat cheese
quesadillas (“Mom, whole wheat?! Really?”) while dog variants march
across the screen. (“Okay, I’ll try not to buy whole wheat tortillas
teens descend to their rooms for other school, and I ponder flower beds and
perennial gardens. The plastic bucket of Shasta daisy roots in my garage
languish from their planting delay, and I feverishly plot companion flowers and
garden books speak of the power of good
companions who can bolster up sagging plants, hide unseemly roots, and add
vivid color to those around them. The reference books speak of the need for
lush fertile soil, enriched by compost and mulch — treasured life-giving
nutrients that spring up from the surrender of decay and death. Hearty life
and color spring from old growth, from life
surrendered, from the drab of former
spade, the bucket of dead-looking Shasta daisy roots, some magenta corabells,
and bags of daffodil, tulip, and crocus bulbs, I head out under a low grey sky.
Pondering companion plants that add strength and beauty to each other, and
the need for continually-enriched
soil that gives life and heartiness, I plunge hands into cold dirt.
Linking with Ann, I say, merci seigneur.