Of Gardens and Children

I wrote this last summer. Me and the kids are back in the yard working this year, so I thought I'd share it here.

I find when meditating, it's best to start where you are at. 

This morning, I was feeling all the anxiousness of getting out into my yard to make something of it. It's a process I've enjoyed for years now. We began with rocks and weeds, literally. And it was difficult at times to say which we had more of. For the whole first year - well, at least before the rocks were buried by weeds - we just walked back and forth across the land, finding rocks in the dirt, digging them out, putting them in the wagon, and hauling them to one of our many rock piles. It was back-breaking and exhausting. And after a year, it seemed like we had little but the piles of rocks to show - still an expanse of weeds and dirt too rocky to till. I remember feeling like we'd never even be able to plant grass!

Four years later we do have grass... and trees, and flowers, and herbs, and a garden. And still a lot of rocks and dirt and weeds. But what we've done is beautiful and it entices me to do more. So I spent some time this morning feeling that desire. And then some time feeling gratitude for the beauty that is there. And then I thought I might spend a moment feeling gratitude for all the rocks. All those rocks which we pulled by hand out of the very hard earth now line our flower beds and walkways and ditch bank. The rocks have taught me more than the flowers. For one, I've learned  it's best not to attempt some things myself. In our second year we hired a guy to come run a pre-seeder, which pressed the remaining rocks into the ground and made eveything look flat and weed-free. In a few minutes it accomplished what we had not been able to do in more than a summer of labor. 

But there was one other significant benefit, aside from unearthing an endless supply of rock, that I gained from that first year of digging. I spent, in that year, a lot of time outside in my yard. I noted how the land rolled, where the shadows of the trees fell, which areas got the most sun, what was seen best by the windows of the house. And as I worked I imagined what the yard would someday be. That year fleshed out a vision of the yard we hope to have in 20 years. There is a fire pit, a root cellar, a tree house, a sledding hill, an orchard, a bowery, 3 different gardens, grapes, chickens, bees, and a green house. 

It quite literally will take 20 years to make the yard equal to the vision and this morning I marveled that I seemed to be up for that kind of work and commitment. But I come back to what I tell my kids as we work together: "This is our piece of land. On all the planet, this is ours. There is nothing between us and heaven. So no matter how insignificant our .35 acre is, it is the speck that adds to the beauty of earth you can see from space."

I don't actually believe the land can ever really be ours. How can you own something that has been here for hundreds of millions of years, and has millions more to go? I guess I figure this .35 acre is my charge now, my stewardship, and I feel moved to make the most of it for all of the time it's in my care.

That's where the meditation began. I went next in my thoughts to my family. (Yes, the yard came first, but as misplaced as it might seem, I really do like to start where I'm at. Maybe after getting all those thoughts out, I could move on to what was really important.) So I thought of my kids. I began with the oldest and felt gratitude for his strengths. And then, because I'd spent time feeling gratitude for the rocks, I paused to feel gratitude for my son's rocks too. He isn't perfect. He has weaknesses, and in all honesty, sometimes the weaknesses drive me more than a little crazy. And when you add those to the weaknesses of my other children, I can find myself somewhere between deep frustration and outrage depending on the day and moment.

Well, it's time to be a gardener of my children. Of course, I don't own them. How can I own the souls that have existed before the world was and will go on existing after the earth is gone? But I feel to make the most of all the time they are in my care. It's a 20 year project, give or take. I began with each at the most basic phase - meeting their minimal needs. I have one with basic needs now. And I'm exhausting my body holding, feeding, changing all day. But as I do, I will unearth who he is. I will find his sunny spots and nice views. And I'll find some rocks too. 

As I took the time to feel gratitude for the rocks of the older 3, I unearthed 3 blessings of rocks - in yards and in kids. There is the blessing of the labor itself, what it does for the one laboring over the extraction. My kids grow as they work on their weaknesses. I grow as I give them the time and patience they need to do so. There is also the blessing of what the rock can make when placed with direction and purpose. In my own self I've found there is a place, a small place for my own rocks. When they've been flung about in abundance they are an obstacle. When I use with care those traits that might normally be regarded as weakness, they can do great things, be just what I need to create something beautiful. It's been hard to see that in myself. It's much easier to see how the things that my kids do that drive me nuts can very easily become the traits that take them the furthest in life if they learn to use them and not to fling them. Lastly there is the blessing of time, specifically the time spent on the labor and the rocks. All this time will enhance the vision of who my children really are and who and what they can become. My vision AND their own visions.

In these 20 year projects, there will be times when I'm relieved to outsource! Mostly, that we're growing together in "do-it-yourself" fashion is more satisfying to my soul than getting it done fast. I close my eyes and imagine a time 20 years from now when I'm sitting in my beautiful yard with my grown children. We'll know the rocks, we've placed them ourselves. They are a part of  the end purpose which we've enjoyed from the beginning. And I bask now in gratitude for 20 years of memories.