After days of devoted watering and pulling weeds that threatened to choke out the plants that were intended to grow, the day finally arrived. My first zinnia appeared. It didn't take long for other blossoms to follow and I was ecstatic. I visited my garden every morning and evening to take in the beauty and monitored the changes that occur.
I was giddy over this little plot of earth. My enthusiasm made me self-conscious. I behaved as if I was the first human ever to grow something. It felt miraculous and I was thrilled and humbled to have been a part of this creative process.
My garden has cultivated so many things in my life. My writing returned after months of grief and word hibernation. The physicality of pulling weeds and mowing, moving earth and wielding tools made me appreciate what my body can do on and off the yoga mat.
My daughter commented on my “flower babies” and how I love them more than her. An absurd notion, but she read my enthusiasm correctly. I DO love my garden and what it has grown.
These blossoms were the bright spot of a yard that has caused me so much mental anguish over the years. They offered a balm and a promise that future seasons would be brighter than the past. Yet another metaphor for this new life I am living.
I could not be more delighted!