Returning Home Again
And the world cannot be discovered by a journey of miles,
no matter how long,
but only by a spiritual journey,
a journey of one inch,
very arduous and humbling and joyful,
by which we arrive at the ground at our feet,
and learn to be at home.
—Wendell Berry
It is Good Friday. I go into our garden, remembering another garden that became a place of prayer, entreaty, yearning, betrayal, and choosing a path that cost life to give life. A rosemary bush at the end of our stone wall has wintered, died back, and now demonstrates life beginning again. .Both the garden I am remembering and the garden where I walk are places of revelation.
a garden is a place of revelation
seeds that survive to grow
are containers that must open and change,
releasing all that they are
in order to become what they can be.
a garden is a place of repair
a wildflower stubbornly pushes through
a crack in the wall, filling that broken place
with green growing hope
a garden is a place pointing to resurrection
though whipped by winds and dried from drought,
shattered stalks lift up and flower
beginning again
a garden is a place of revelation
but not a place I can stay.
I cross its threshold
and remember.
I cannot count how many different greens appear in Springtime.
There is a blush of green on the trees covered with tiny buds trying to open
The changing green as leaves unfurl and fill branches of oak and elm
Sprouting snap peas, lettuces, and fledgling tomatoes are not the same color
Herbs have a whole palette of green of their own: sage, parsley, oregano, chives
Feathery dill and fennel, each uniquely green
All beginning again
All fresh and new
Every green an alleluia,
Singing Easter.
Today I’m flying low and I’m
not saying a word.
I’m letting all the voodoos of ambition sleep.
The world goes on as it must,
the bees in the garden rumbling a little,
the fish leaping, the gnats getting eaten.
And so forth.
But I’m taking the day off.
Quiet as a feather.
I hardly move though really I’m traveling
a terrific distance.
Stillness. One of the doors
into the temple.
~ Mary Oliver, “Today” from, ‘A Thousand Mornings’
Stones and Feathers 