The summer I let my gardens die is still fresh in my mind because it just happened. That’s right. This past summer I did not tend to the garden plots that usually grow prolifically with strawberries, tomatoes, squash, and herbs.
In fact just the contrary occurred. I watched vermin, wily and pesky squirrels, strip not only the fruits and vegetables from the vines but also the leaves from the crawling butter yellow roses that sprawl across the back stonewall. Now winter magnifies the bleakness.
I didn’t even tend to patio pots nor weed the rose garden spot. In fact, my husband and I pulled up many of our rose bushes and replanted them in the front yard alongside our driveway. They didn’t like this new location and barely grew or bloomed. Now when I look out from my kitchen window, I miss the colors of red wine, summer squash yellow, and cotton candy pink where the roses once stood so tall and proud. Yet even though we chose to make these changes, I sensed this desire to transplant the roses reflected my inner process of making my life more public. Some things would have to die to make room for the new.
Instead of tending my gardens, I spent most of the summer working on my five blogs and a book proposal. I was conscious of the neglect, at first even felt twinges of guilt. But then something eerie occurred. I mentally disdained the former flowers and foliage I’d cultivated for years. I need a change next spring I rationalized; garden neglect is such an uncharacteristic pattern for my usual floral-loving temperament.
Now spring edges closer with spontaneous warm spurts reminding me of the new start required. I find myself lured to walk the parameter and survey the damages. I’ve made a mess of things with my “Let it all die” mentality. It’s going to take a lot of work and money to redo something new I mused.
The other night I dreamed that my best friend and I walked through barren, dry fields with our cameras. Occasionally we would spot purple and yellow crocuses brilliantly blooming. We would call to one another, gather around the flowers, and zoom in with our cameras to get close up shots.
The life of the flowers imparted spirit to our worn out souls, and we giggled like two young schoolgirls once again.
When I awoke from the dream, I googled crocus flowers and found this encouraging reflection:
Unlike most flowers, crocuses bloom in the most adverse conditions. While other flowers need aerated beds and warm weather, crocuses grow best in gritty soil and blossom in early spring, even when snow is still on the ground. http://www.forewordreviews.com/reviews/clarion/yellow-crocus/
Barbie and I began our friendship at the age of fourteen. Throughout our lives, we have supported one another during the most difficult of times. Yet in spite of the sorrow and the pain we have endured, we have learned to “…grow best in gritty soil and blossom in early spring, even when snow is still on the ground.”We both long to discover God’s will for our lives and even dare to let our current dreams die, like my gardens, if this means we might follow our Heavenly Shepherd to difficult places where crocuses peek out from under snowy ground.
Yes, spring is right around the corner and with this season the promise of new life, I feel the urge to garden again. My gardens, just like the crocuses in my dream, will be fresh, new, and full of meaning. Barbie and I anticipate something of deeper meaning to come forth from our souls because we dared to die to what we knew.